


Black Sunflowers

by windsthatwhisper



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anxiety Attacks, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Fluff and Angst, Kidnapping, M/M, also poorly written smut but i tried, woo let's do this thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 18:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16938369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsthatwhisper/pseuds/windsthatwhisper
Summary: “My mother always told me to stay away from people like you,” Jonathan whispered, curling into the hand that cupped his cheek, “You're dangerous.”Patrick smirked at him, knuckles brushing against Jon’s skin; gentle, loving, everything Jonny ever wanted."I'm dangerous to some, sweetheart," Patrick crooned lowly into his ear, kissing the mole on his neck, loving, possessive, "But never to you."After all, Stockholm Syndrome is just a fancy term for falling in love.Alternatively; Patrick Kane is a notorious mob boss. Jonathan Toews is a normal citizen who ends up saving Patrick’s life. To keep Jonny safe from Patrick’s worst enemy, he has to be fast enough.





	Black Sunflowers

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this for months, so hopefully it lives up to everyone's expectations. 
> 
> Be warned about the graphic descriptions of violence that will come towards the middle to ending part of the fic.
> 
> Enjoy guys :)

**_New York, August 2004_ **

Footsteps pounded down the sidewalk, hard slapping noises coming from the water every time his foot made contact with the concrete.

It was pouring. Sheet lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the bottom of the clouds for a split second. Thunder slammed across the sky in retaliation, and Patrick ran faster.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and it shocked Patrick into tripping. A second hand came down to wrap around his midsection and keep him upright. He pulled Patrick against his front and pinned him there.

“Slow down, kid,” the man rumbled, panting, “Damn, you're a fast little fucker, aren't you?”

“Get off me!” Patrick shouted, twisting in his arms, “Let me go!”

“Calm down.” The man rolled his eyes, “It's just me, Kaner.”

Patrick stopped struggling, then blinked, “Stick?”

“Yeah, man, it's me,” Stick scoffed, “Now will you chill?”

“Wh-where're the others?”

“Our guys? Headed back to the house. Smith's boys? Most of them are either dead or on the run.”

Patrick clenched his eyes shut. “And the little girl?”

Stick squeezed Patrick’s shoulder, but said nothing. A tear slipped from Patrick’s eyelids. _Dammit._

“You did good, kid. You did everything you could.” Stick tried to console him, but it fell deaf to Patrick’s ears.

“I can't go home.” He whispered. “My family won't be safe.”

He could still hear Smith snarling, see the blood pouring from the cut Patrick had slit across his cheekbone. _“I’ll get you, boy, and you'll never see it coming.”_

“I know,” Stick said, “That's why you're coming with us. Okay?”

All the worries from before left him, knowing that the most selfish thing he could do was walk away. He knew Stick would let him, keep a close eye on Patrick’s family, but they also both knew that Smith would kill his family, even with the Chicago Mob on Patrick’s side.

So, Patrick nodded, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

\--▪--

**_Chicago, November 2018_ **

Two feet hurried down the crowded streets, shoving past people with “excuse me,” and “sorry,” thrown over his shoulders.

Jonathan pushed through the doors of the bakery and stumbled inside.

Immediately, the comfortable scent of vanilla cookies and cherry jelly filled his nose, and he took a moment to calm his racing heart.

“Good Heavens, honey,” Mrs. Miccoletti gasped at him from behind the counter of sweets, “You look like you’ve been running from the hounds of hell.”

Jonathan huffed. “Close. Very close.”

In that moment, T.J. slammed through the doors and pointed at Jonathan. “You sneaky motherfucker!”

Mrs. Miccoletti tutted at him, “Mr. Oshie, language.”

T.J. immediately retracted and blushed. “Sorry, Mrs. Miccoletti.”

“Hmm. Well, why don't you boys stay for a while? Business has been slow today. I'll make you some coffee, on the house.”

Jonathan and T.J. smiled gratefully at her. “Thank you,” they responded in unison, like the good boys they were raised to be.

They sat in one of the booths by the window, across from each other, and Jon pulled out his phone. He'd been coming to this bakery since he first moved to Chicago over ten years ago.

T.J., who had so rudely popped in uninvited while on a business trip from Washington D.C., had now found his hiding spot.

“You better not tell anyone I come to this bakery,” Jonathan ordered as he opened the NHL app to see the latest stories, “No one can know about my hideaway.”

T.J. snorted and raised his hands in surrender. “Don't worry, dude, you're secret is safe with me.” Then, he burst into a series of snorts and laughter.

Jon rolled his eyes, “Hilarious.”

He'd been on his daily jog when TJ pulled up next to him in his shiny red Corolla. Of course, because he's an asshole, Jonny ran away from him. He hadn't expected TJ to leap out of the car and Sprint after him.

His phone buzzed with a notification. He pulled down the dropdown screen to find it was from the news station.

 _BREAKING NEWS: The Chicago Mob and police are in a current standoff near W Monroe Street. Robert Nathaniel Dett Elementary and surrounding schools have gone on lockdown, and people are urged to stay indoors until the standoff is over._ _Read More._

Jonathan shook his head. People were crazy if they thought they were above the law, mobs and mobsters included. How stupid can a group of people be? Pointing a gun at a wall of armed police officers.

Jon scoffed at the thought.

Mrs. Miccoletti put the cups in front of him and T.J. “It's on the news,” she told him, glancing at his screen, “I worry…” She shook her head again and went back to restock some of the boxed candies.

Jonathan shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it. He sipped at his coffee and continued right along at kicking T.J. underneath the table.

\--▪--

It was midnight, and Jonathan was still awake.

Mrs. Miccoletti had trusted him to lock up the bakery when he was done with his work, which meant he was alone.

He was perched in a corner booth of the bakery, sipping his fourth cup of coffee since he got there at five thirty. He was so close to finishing his paper. So close. One more paragraph and he’d be done with the three page paper for his Political Science class.

He took a bite of his gluten-free cherry danish, pressed the enter key, and then the door got slammed against the window.

Jonathan jumped six feet in the air, almost tossing his coffee off the table. The lights were off, save for the street lights shining in through the windows, so the face of the man who tumbled inside was barely visible.

Jon saved his paper -- _always save, always save_ \-- and then slammed his laptop shut, to see the man collapse against the front counter.

Jonathan hurried over and grabbed the stranger by the arm. “Oh my god. Who are you? Are you alright? What happened?”

“Mrs. Miccoletti! Fuck, where-where's Mrs. Miccoletti?” The guy grunted. He turned, and _oh,_ there was a bullet lodged in his shoulder- and one in his calf.

What the _hell?_

“Shit, okay, that’s bad.” Jonathan blubbered.  “Hold on. Hold on.” Quickly, he took off his belt and dropped to a knee, wrapped it right above the wound on the guy's leg, tight to cut off as much blood flow as possible.

The guy leaned back against the counter, huffing, seemingly out of breath. Jonathan stood again and faced the guy, taking in his face. There was a cut right above his eyebrow, the blood dripping down the side of his face. His lip was busted, and even in the dim lighting, he could see the start of a black eye forming.

“Shit, man, we need to get you to a hospital-”

 _“No,”_ the man snapped, then gripped the counter behind him to steady himself, “Where’s Mrs. Miccoletti?”

“Out. She left a while ago. What does she-”

The guy pushed past Jonathan, hobbling over to the door.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Jon called out, “You can't leave. You’ve been _shot.”_

What the hell was this guy's problem?

The guy ignored him, shoved the door open and stumbled down the sidewalk.

Jonathan, of course, hurried after him, just in time to see him fall into a heap on the sidewalk. Jon dropped to his knees beside him. “I'm calling an ambulance.”

 _“No.”_ The guy repeated, grabbing Jon's phone to stop him. “Y-You wanna help me? Got- you got a car?”

Jonathan stared at him quizzically, but got the guy to his feet and dragged him to his car. He tried to help buckle the guy, but he batted Jon's hand away, “Just fucking drive.”

Jonathan glared, but hurried to the front seat and drove off.

He took a brief moment to question _what the fuck he was doing;_ he should just take the guy to the hospital.

But the guy was very adamant about not going, and this guy was _bleeding out._ The sooner they got to any kind of help, the better. So, he trusted the guy and his judgement, and followed all the directions the man gave him on where to go.

“Can I at least know your name?” Jonathan asked as he sped down a backroad.

The guy was silent, except for some grunting and hissing when they turned or hit a bump in the road. But then, “Patrick.”

“Jonathan.”

“Cool. Now shut up and take a left.”

Jon hit the breaks sooner than he thought he'd have to, and turned. “You know, we’re going away from all types of civilization.”

“That's the point, _Jonny.”_

“Don't call me that, please,” Jon huffed, “Look-”

“Make a U-Turn.”

_“What?”_

“For fucks sake, just trust me!” Patrick yelled, and when Jonathan glanced in the mirror, he saw how white Patrick had become, color drained from his face, blood staining his hands and upper arms, head laying uselessly against the window, body trembling.

Jonathan made an abrupt U-Turn.

“I had to make sure no one was following us,” Patrick told him, quietly, “Throw them off a bit.”

“Following you?” Jonathan furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you in some kind of danger?”

Patrick didn't reply.

 _“Patrick._ If you're in danger, then me helping you has put _me_ in danger. Answer my question.”

Patrick was silent for a moment, before he said, “Just drive, Jonathan.”

\--▪--

Patrick’s directions led him to-

A building.

An old, abandoned, run-down building in the middle of nowhere.

“Are you sure this is the right pla-”

Someone's firm hand slammed against Jonathan’s window. He jumped, then scrambled to roll down his window.

There was a guy with a _gun_ outside.

Jonathan paled. This wasn't the right place. “Um-”

“Who the hell are you?” The guy gritted.

“Um-”

“Let ‘m through, Krugs.” Patrick wheezed from the backseat.

The dude -- _Krugs_ \-- did a double take and poked his head through the window. _“Shit,_ Kaner, where the fuck have you been?”

Patrick smiled weakly.

Krugs tugged his head out and motioned for Jonny to go past the gate as he pulled out a walkie talkie from his waistband.

Krugs blinked at him. _“Go!”_

Jonathan pressed the gas.

By the time Jonathan pulled up outside the building, a hoard of people were flying out the doors and swarming Jon's car.

“Unlock the doors!” Someone yelled, and Jonathan was too startled to do anything but.

The back door was yanked open by a guy that looked like he came out of a Suave commercial, and he pulled Patrick out of the car as quickly as possible.

“Crow's getting Abby ready in the med wing,” the dude said as he and a strawberry blond guy wrapped their arms around Patrick to keep him up, then yelled out, “We're gonna need at least three pints of blood!”

“He's losing consciousness!”

Jon's door opened, and a burly-looking guy motioned him to get out of the car. He looked around and noticed that the doors that Patrick and the others had disappeared into where the doors were guarded by _more men with guns,_ um.

Probably shouldn't try to book it this time.

Hesitantly, Jonathan got out and stood next to the man awkwardly. The guy closed the door and told him, “Good call.”

The man motioned to follow, so Jonathan hurried along beside him. The man didn't seem to have any weapons on him, but Jon didn't doubt the guy could probably kill him with one punch, if he was trained enough.

Christ, who _are these people?_

“Are you guys terrorists?” Jonathan asked.

It startled a laugh out of the man beside him. He led Jon inside the building, “No, man, not terrorists.”

The building surprisingly had a working A/C. Only half of the building’s ceiling lights worked, but there were lamps and- and _fairy lights_ scattered about the building.

“This place used to be an urgent care,” the man told him when he noticed Jon eyeing the desk with the sign that had a chipped-up _FRONT DESK._

“Used to be, huh?” Jon chuckled weakly. “What’s it used for now?”

The man said nothing, just kept walking past the desk, down the room that led to multiple rooms and stairwell. “How much do you know?”

Jonathan scoffed. “Really? This Patrick character came stumbling into Mrs. Miccoletti's bakery an hour ago with fucking bullet wounds buried in his body, and he tells me, repeatedly, not to go to the hospital, but an abandoned building where a multitude of people live, apparently, with _guns_.”

The guy isn't phased by Jon’s anger. Instead, he tilted his head, considering, and nodded. “I can see how you'd be overwhelmed.”

Jonathan blinked at him, baffled. _“Yeah.”_

The man turned and went up the stairs. Jonathan followed, exasperated. “Dude, say something, here! You can't just drag me into whatever the fuck you've got going on and expect me to not ask questions. You didn't exactly let me go _home.”_

“You can't go home,” the guy told him, walking to a room and pushing the door open, “This used to be a room where workers who worked the night shifts would sleep. You'll be staying here.”

Jonathan stared at him like he had four heads. “You can't keep me here.”

“We can, and we will,” he guy shrugged, “You know how to get to our base. We can't let you go running to the cops.”

“What the _fuck?_ You're all insane. I'm not saying here. _Crisse.”_ Jonathan snapped.

“You'll learn to like it. Patrick did. My name's Seabs. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I need to go home.” Jon glared. “I'm leaving. And you can't stop me.”

“I wouldn't do that.” Seabs warned, eyebrows burrowing.

Jon snorted, “Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

Seabs went to grab him, but Jonathan darted away and took off down the stairs. Behind him, he heard Seabs shout, “Arty!”

Jonathan was five leaps from the door when a pair of arms wrapped around his neck. They put him in a chokehold and tugged him backwards, away from the door.

Jonathan coughed, struggling to get air and escape. He could already feel his chest burning with the lack of oxygen. His eyes got hot and he flailed, clawing at the arms around his neck.

“Shh, be alright. Stop struggling and I will not hurt you.”

Jonathan choked, coughing up the saliva he inhaled. His vision started blacking. Panic welled up inside him, and he saw Seabs step in front of him.

“See you when you wake up.” He said, before Jonathan slumped backwards and passed out.

\--▪--

**_Chicago, May 2005_ **

“Keep your chin up!” Stick yelled, dodging another one of Patrick's swings, “You're looking at my face. Focus on your impact point.”

Patrick swung again, and Stick easily caught his fist, twisted it and pinned it behind Patrick’s back. Patrick used his strength to bodyslam them backwards and roll off of him. He hurried to toss another punch, but Stick rolled away and onto his feet.

“You told me to never look at where you're aiming.” Patrick panted, “You said they could track my movement.”

“They can, by the tilt of your head. Move your eyes and nothing else,” Stick said, and narrowly avoided another punch, “Good!”

Patrick heaved a breath, then rapidly jumped and swung his leg out, slamming his foot into Stick’s face.

Stick stumbled, and Patrick ran over to him in panic. “Oh my god, are you okay? I'm so sor-”

Stick grabbed Patrick’s wrist and in three quick moves, Patrick was pinned to the ground, Stick’s hands on his wrists and knee right below his intestines.

“Not bad, kid, you're learning,” Stick laughed, “but remember: always keep your guard up.”

Patrick exhaled with a smile. “Sure, Boss. Whatever you say.”

\--▪--

**_Chicago, November 2018_ **

Jonathan woke up slowly.

The first thing he noticed was the pain in his head, the ringing in his ears. The room was dark and cold.

For a split second, he forgot where he was. He was flashbacked to his concussion, back in college, how he couldn't even get out of bed for a month and nearly lost his scholarship.

But then, he remembered, no, he was just being held hostage.

He sat up, head throbbing, and tried to figure out how to get out the room when he couldn't see.

He felt around on the walls until he found a doorknob, and he threw it open.

It was a closet.

Cursing, he searched until there was another doorknob.

Bathroom.

There was a light switch. He flicked it on, and light spilled into the room. The light made his head hurt worse. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like crap, really: eyes red and heavy, face pale, hair askew. He flattened it down, then splashed water on his face, hoping to look somewhat human.

With the light from the bathroom shining into the main room, Jon could finally see. He found the door. He found a way out.

He opened it cautiously, peeking out to see if anyone was there. The hallway was blessedly empty, and the ceiling lights were dim, only two for the whole hallway.

He walked with haste, making his way down the hall, to the stairs, skipping two at a time.

His foot hit the floor of the first story, and that Seabs guy from earlier was in front of him.

Jonathan reared back and tripped over the bottom step, falling hard on his ass.

Seabs winced. “Ouch.”

“Thanks.” Jon rolled his eyes, and stared confused at the hand outstretched to him. Cautiously, he took it, and let Seabs pull him up. He said slightly more earnest this time, “Thanks.”

Seabs nodded at him. “We can't let you go, bud.”

Jonathan huffed. “Why not? Look, I'm not that popular. I'm not gonna go off and tell people.”

“Maybe not,” Seabs shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal that they were holding him captive, “but everyone has friends, maybe one, maybe a hundred and one. Either way. It's risky, and we don't like risks.”

Jonathan closed his eyes. “Who’s ‘we’, exactly?”

“The Mob,” another voice came, and Jonathan spun around to find Patrick limping into the room, “The Chicago Mob, to be exact.”

Jonathan blinked. Oh. _Shit._

“A mob.” Jon breathed. “You're...in a mob. I helped a mobster.”

“Not just _a_ mobster.” Suave Commercial corrected, following Patrick into the room. “Patrick Kane. The leader of the Chicago Mob.”

Jonathan was struggling to breathe correctly.

“A mob boss?” He asked, “You're...a mob boss? _The_ mob boss? I- uh-”

“Easy, Jonathan,” Seabs said, grabbing his arm when Jonathan stumbled backwards, “Take it easy.”

“You're a _mob.”_ Jonathan wailed.

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. It's not a big deal.”

“Wha- not a big deal? You do drugs. You _kill_ people. Innocent people!”

“I do not,” Patrick’s eyes turned hot with fire in a blink, and he growled out lowly, “They are not innocent. The people I kill deserve what's coming to them. They deserve much worse than what I give them.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened in fear. Patrick composed himself and sighed, “We're getting off on the wrong foot-”

“What did you want with Mrs. Miccoletti?” Jonathan interrupted, stalking forward and pointing, “What? She deserves to die?”

Suave Commercial and Seabs went to grab him, but Patrick held up a hand, and they stopped.

“No,” he clipped, “Mrs. Miccoletti is a close friend of mine. I was hoping she was at the bakery to tend to my wounds. But instead, I got you.”

The insult flew right over Jonathan's head. “Mrs. Miccoletti is working with the Chicago Mob? The nicest woman in the world who hates killing the sugar ants that invade her floors?”

“Yes, that one,” Patrick nodded, “Why don't you and I talk? I can clear up any questions you have.”

Jonathan looked between Seabs and Suave Commercial, and that one guy with the gun leaning against the wall behind them. No one really looked like they wanted to hurt him, but then again, kidnappers are usually pretty trustworthy looking.

Though, technically, they didn't kidnap him, since he came here on his own free will.

But he nodded nevertheless, and Patrick shooed them away.

“You have a gun on you, don't you?” Was the first thing he asked.

Patrick turned his head and nodded. “Have to. I need to have some sort of protection at all times.”

It didn't make Jonathan feel any better, or safer.

There was an awkward silence that followed, before Jon asked, almost timidly, “Why are you up? You kinda got shot, twice.”

Patrick snorted. “I've had much worse in worse places,” he said, “The one in my leg never went in; it just tore some of the skin. The one on my arm is healing. It's wrapped in gauze and bandages.”

There was more silence, the two just standing around awkwardly. Eventually, Patrick held out an arm, then walked down the hall.

“The Chicago Mob isn't as- we don't get aggrivated as much as, say, Russia,” he told him, “We don't go in killing sprees, if that's what you're worried about.”

Jon scoffed, “So you don't get involved in illegal drug rings? Don't those almost always end up with someone shot?

Patrick glared at him a little. “I'll admit, we used to. But now, we have so many people that owe us money, and so many other mobs after us, we don't really feel the need to worry about drugs.”

Jon squinted, “So you don't use them, but you sell them.”

Patrick looked up at him in surprise. “How did you know that?”

Jon shrugged. “It just doesn't seem likely that a mob isn't involved in some way with drugs. But your guys don't seem to look like they've been shoving needles in their arms six ways to Sunday.”

“You're observant.” Patrick stated. What, was that a compliment? By the guy who’s keeping him captive? He's flattered.

He said as much, and Patrick just laughed.

“You still kill people though.” Jon stated firmly, like nothing Patrick could say would change his mind.

Patrick shrugged at him. “We're a mob. What do you expect? It comes with the job.”

“You didn't have to become a mobster.”

Patrick stayed silent for a beat. “Maybe not.”

Jonathan wanted to question that, but instead a more urgent matter came to mind. “Look, I have- stuff, at my place. You can't just permanently move me from my home without anything.” Jonathan frowned.

Patrick paused. “I'll send some guys to get your things.”

“Can I go with them?”

“No.”

“For fucks sake, _please.”_ Jon shouted, exasperated. “That's my home! I want to be able to say goodbye to it. God knows if I'll ever get out of this place. Oh God- my family is going to freak-”

“You'll be fine,” Patrick mumbled, “They're safer when you're with us.”

Jonathan blinked.

“You can go with them,” Patrick agreed, “But I'm coming with you. Seabs and Sharpy-”

“Was that the guy who looked like he just came from a Suave Commercial?”

A pause.

“...Yes. Seabs, Sharpy, Duncs, and maybe Crow, depending on what's going on in the public waters.”

“Public… what?”

“Nothing. Chicago talk. Long story short, you'll get your stuff, but you're going with armed men. Escape isn't an option.”

Jonathan’s eyes cast down to the floor. “I'm starting to realize that.”

Patrick said nothing.

\---▪---

They went to get Jonathan's things the next day. Patrick had been pressed up against him in the small car during the drive, Seabs to his left, Duncs in the passenger's, Sharpy in the front.

It was harder than Jon had thought, walking through the door of his condo and seeing the life he had just days ago. Knowing he'd never have that life again.

“Be as quick as you can.” Patrick told him, right hand coming down to rest on the waistband of his pants, right above the pistol carried in its sheath.

Jonathan glared. “Don't tell me what to do.”

Shakily, he turned and got to work. He didn't worry about plates or silverware. The mob could get whatever they needed, really, and Jon trembled at the thought of how far they would go to get something as simple as plates.

He went up to his room. The sheets were still messy from when he got out of bed, not having the energy to make them that morning.

He opened his closet and fished out a couple old duffel bags from his college hockey years. He shoved as many pairs of clothes, socks, underwear, that he could fit. He stuck in picture frames of his family, toothbrush and toothpaste, an old Hawks jersey, and his college hockey jersey.

He was halfway done packing when he heard commotion outside. He went halfway down the stairs to check what was going on, found TJ shouting behind the closed front door. Patrick and Seabs had their guns aimed at the door.

_Shit._

Hurriedly, Jon rushed down the stairs and shoved both of them out of the doorway. “Put your guns down.”

“Who's that?” Patrick asked eyebrows raised.

“My friend. Now move.” Jonny begged.

“Boss?”

T.J. knocked harder.

_“Guys.”_

“Alright, alright,” Patrick huffed, “Boys, up the stairs. We can't afford anyone seeing us.”

The guys were safely hidden, guns raised and out of sight on the stairwell. Jonny threw open the door.

“Tazer!” T.J. exclaimed. “There you are. What took you so long?”

“Busy,” Jon lied, heart hammering in his ribcage, “I'm moving to a different apartment. So. I've been moving my stuff all day.”

T.J. furrowed his eyebrows. “Why didn't you tell me? Let me help, man.”

“No, it's cool, you're leaving in a couple days,” he rushed out, “I've got it.”

T.J. looked at him quizzically, but eventually, he nodded. “If you're sure, dude. I'll see you tomorrow. We're still on for the bar, right?”

Jonny pulled a tight smile. “Definitely.”

“Cool,” T.J. nodded, “See you later.”

When he was gone, Patrick came trotting down the stairs. Jonathan roughly shoved him against the wall. He heard multiple guns cock, knew they were pointed at him. Frankly, he didn't give a fuck.

“Don't you _ever_ try to pull a gun on my friends,” he hissed, “I don't care who you are or what you're a part of.”

Patrick stared at him, surprised.

He slammed Patrick again, then stormed back into his condo to finish packing.

It took another half an hour, but Jon finally packed everything he wanted to bring. He gathered his bags in his arms, weathered hockey stick in hand, and turned to find some of the guys standing by his door. Patrick was leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he watched, gun exposed over his raised shirt.

Sharpy reached for a bag. “Let us help-”

“Don't touch anything,” Jonny snapped, yanking his arms away from Sharpy's hands, “I don't want your help. I can handle it on my own.”

He pushed past them all, down the stairs and out the door. He didn't need help from the men who're holding him captive.

He loaded his bags into the trunk of the car, slammed it shut. When he turned, Patrick was behind him.

Jon jumped and pressed himself back against the car. “Dude, back up! You're like, nipple to nipple with me right now.”

Patrick stared at him, as if trying to read something. “You didn't try to escape.”

Jon blinked.

“When that guy came by, you could have told him we had you, given him some kind of message, _bolted._ But you didn't.” Patrick’s eyes scanned over his face, confused. “Why?”

“Why?” Jonathan scoffed. “You're a fucking _mob._ You could kill me. You could kill my _family._ You think I'm stupid enough to take that risk?”

He moved to get into the car, but Patrick grabbed his wrist. “I’d never hurt your family, Jonathan. No matter what you do.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “What, you want a medal or something? Good for you; you're not a complete asshole. Congratulations.”

He ripped his wrist away and got into the backseat. Patrick drove this time.

\--▪--

It took two weeks for Jonathan to be reported missing.

It came over the stolen television they had in the main room, the news station that they always had on.

At first, Jonathan wasn't sure what was going on, when he heard -- who he now knows as -- Brinksy shout for Patrick and the others.

Jonathan jogged with the gradient, but he came into contact with a hard chest, and looked up to find Crow watching him. “Don't go in there, man.”

Jonathan frowned. “What? Why?”

“Because you'll regret it.” Crow replied, but it wasn't threatening. It was almost worried, lips drawn into a firm line and eyebrows furrowed.

“Let me see.” Jonathan snapped, and Crow let him pass.

Jonathan stumbled into the room and promptly tripped on the rug, falling face-first into Patrick's firm back. He rubbed his nose and looked at the television, and he felt all the color drain from his body.

_“-irty year old Jonathan Toews has been reported missing from his Chicago condo as of late last night. His family have reported not having heard from him in about three weeks, but his long-term friends T.J. Oshie and Dan Watt say otherwise.”_

“Dan?” Jon whispered. Dan was in Chicago? When did he get here?

 _“I saw Jon two weeks ago, said he was moving. I have seen or heard from him since. Never sent me his address. He just disappeared.”_ T.J. frowned on the television screen.

 _“Jon was never one to respond to text messages right away,”_ Dan told the reporters, _“But it's not like him to go two weeks without saying something. He talks to his mom every week, and it's been three since she's heard. She’s really worried.”_

Jonathan’s heart clenched. His mother was probably scared out of her mind. Oh God.

The screen cut back to the female reporter. _“If you see Jonathan, authorities urge you to contact 911 or the sheriff’s department immediately. His family says, they just want to know he's okay. Sam, back to you.”_

Jonathan took a step backwards. It was suddenly too small in here.

Patrick turned around, saw Jonathan looking like a startled rabbit. He took a half step to the side, towards the exit. Patrick put a hand on his gun, and Jon's eyes snapped to his hand.

“Jon,” Patrick warned, “Choose your next move very carefully.”

There was a flash of fear behind Jonathan's eyes, and Patrick flinched. 

The fear quickly turned to hurt. “I just- uh, excuse me.”

He hurried the opposite way, up the stairs and sped off to his room. He slammed the door shut and fell onto the bed, trying to calm his breathing.

His mother, his poor mother, was probably terrified, had no idea where he was or if he was alive. His dad must have been panicking, and David-

A tear fell onto the pillow, and he quickly wiped it away and dried his eyes.

Someone knocked on the door, and it opened a sliver. “Jonathan? It's Corey. Can I come in?”

Jon sniffed. “I guess.”

The door closed, and Crow sat on the end of the bed, away from him. “I told you, you know.”

Jonathan scoffed, “Yeah, thanks for that.”

Crow sighed. “Look, I know you want to go home. But you have to see where we're coming from. We can't just let you loose and risk you telling the cops where we're at. It'd be one thing if you didn't know how to get here, but you drove here. You know the directions.”

“It’s bullshit,” Jon hissed, sitting up, “I don't want to be here.”

“Would you rather be dead?” Crow asked nonchalantly. “Because Kaner usually gets the guys to take out witnesses and others. But he kept you alive.”

Jon huffed. “Why?”

“You saved his life. I know he acted like he was fine, but he got shot. Twice. He would have died if you'd have left him. But you didn't. I guess Kaner just decided a life for a life.”

Jonathan stayed silent, so Crow said, “Just give us a chance, okay? I know we're a mob, and we do a lot of bad things, but you don't know what some of us have been through, why we ended up here. Some of us didn't have a choice.”

Crow patted Jon on the knee. Someone else knocked on the door, and Patrick peeked inside.

“Hey,” he greeted, “Abby's making dinner, and she could always use some help, if you're up for it, Jon.”

Jonathan blinked over to Crow. “Who’s Abby?”

“Sharpy's wife.” He responded. “You haven't met her? She’s one of the meds here. Fixed up our Peeks nice and good again.”

“Peeks?”

Patrick smirked a little at Jonathan. “Guess there's some things you don't know about me.”

Crow stood up, and Patrick motioned Jon to follow suit. “Come on. She and the girls would love to meet you.”

“There's _kids_ here?” Jon gaped. “I've been here two weeks. How have I not met them?”

Patrick shrugged. “You stay cooped up in your room all day. Now let's get going before she makes everyone pitch in. Feeding forty people is tiring.”

“Forty people?” Jonathan mouthed as Crow and Patrick led him downstairs.

\--▪--

**_New York, October 2006_ **

“Hey, Kaner,” Stick called for him one day, a little after two years since he'd joined the mob, “I need you to go out and pick some stuff up at the grocery store.”

They were in New York City on a business meeting, and Stick had dragged half the mob with him, Patrick included.

Patrick groaned and stood from his place on the couch, where he was squished -- surprisingly -- comfortably between Seabs and Duncs on the grummy old couch in the lounging room.

“Why am I always your little chore bunny?” He huffed, but got up anyway. He headed to the kitchen, which was attached by door frame to the lounge area, where he found Stick writing something in a notebook.

“Because no matter how many years you're here for, you're still our rookie.” Stick said simply, then handed Patrick a piece of notebook paper with a bunch of groceries scribbled on it. “Take Sharpy with you. Maybe you two can bond.”

Sharpy was the newest addition to the Chicago Mob, transferred from Dallas. He, his wife Abby, and their girls, had all moved into the base building about three months ago. He and Sharpy were already acquainted, but he supposed it would hurt to have Sharpy come with him.

“Remind me again why we brought an outside mobster into _our_ mob?”

“Three reasons. One, because Seguin and Benn down in Dallas are the only mob that is one hundred percent our ally, at the moment. Two, he's been passed back and forth between us and Dallas and we missed him. And three-”

He spun around in his chair to face Patrick. There was that glint in his eye that only Patrick was allowed to see; the sign that meant this was serious talk.

“-Sharp is a good guy. In the mob world, you don't find too many of them. And Patrick, you find someone who's a good person -- pure hearted, caring, someone who you know will take care of the family -- you keep them safe; you stay a part of their lives. You don't _ever_ let them go.”

Patrick stared at him, big eyed.

“They're capable of much more than any of us. You understand?”

Patrick nodded hurriedly. “Yes sir.”

Stick smiled. “Good. Now go get me my PopTarts.”

_...to be continued_

\--▪--

**_Chicago, November 2018_ **

Abby, it turns out, is a glimmer of light in this hell hole, and her kids are much too precious for Jonathan's own good.

He also met the other wives and children of the mob, and Jonathan realized that Patrick was understating when he said forty people.

“Thank you so much for helping,” Abby smiled at him, scooping another pot of mashed potatoes into a gigantic bowl, “The boys hate helping, but it's so much work, even with all of us.”

Dayna nodded from where she was stirring the spaghetti noodles. “You'll never find one of those men in this kitchen while we're cooking unless they're trying to snag some food.”

Jonathan chuckled while he chopped vegetables to put into the tomato sauce. “It's not a problem, really. There's so many more people living here than I thought.”

Kristy, Crow's girlfriend, snorted where she was setting the massive table in the room connected to the kitchen. “Oh sweetie, you have no idea.”

All of a sudden, half of the mob came running in, chasing a herd of screeching children. Patrick caught little baby Cooper, Crow's son, and spun him around in the air.

“I’ll cut you with a fork if you drop my kid.” Crow glared at the blond and snatched his son away. Cooper just giggled and clung to his father.

“Boys, boys, no horseplay in the kitchen!” Abby hollered. “We have open knives!”

Simultaneously, the father's stopped. Then, they began hustling the kids out of the kitchen, mumbling, “not today,” and “I think not,” and “move move move move move.”

Jonathan watched them go, and he couldn't help but laugh quietly at them. Patrick appeared next to him, looking a little sheepish. “Uh, hi.”

Jonathan quirked an eyebrow and grabbed the knife he'd been using. “Hey.”

Patrick paled, but he relaxed when Jonathan started chopping more vegetables. “Hi. So. I wanted to, uh, formally apologize, I guess. I know you don't want to be here, but, it’s for all of our safety, you know?”

Jonathan nodded. “You know, you should have told me there were kids here, and wives. It would have made things a lot easier.”

Patrick seemed to brighten up a little, but asked, confused, “Why’s that?”

“Because, there's _kids._ Obviously, they're all happy and in good health. They’re… safe here, and they're with their families. I’d never take that from them. And, like, judging by their good health and happiness, it doesn't look like you’d intentionally put them in any harm, so there's nothing to worry about.

He paused, then scooped up the onion bits and tossed them into the sauce pot on the stove.

“Besides, I know how mobs work,” Jon shrugged, “Even if I didn't tell the police, other mobs would probably find out about me, and God knows what would happen then.”

“All things we have to consider,” Patrick agreed, “But you saved my life. You didn't seem like a threat.”

Jonathan tilted his head, and Patrick’s arm shot out to swipe a piece of chicken skin.

From across the room, Abby slammed a bowl down, back turned to him. “Patrick Kane, don't you touch that chicken!”

Patrick grinned smugly, but there was a hint of fear in his face. “Don't make me regret it.” He told him, before scurrying off before Abby could catch him.

Jonathan stared at the doorway, pondering.

\--▪--

**_New York, October 2006 (continued)_ **

He and Sharpy ended up buying two cart-fulls of stuff, because they had the money and no one should trust the two of them alone with a stack of cash, let's be honest here.

However, he never expected to see Jackie shopping with their mom.

They were in the front of the clothing section at the walkway. Jackie grabbed a white, floral dress, spun around with it against her chest while their mom laughed at her. Jackie started laughing, too.

Tears immediately pricked in Patrick’s eyes. Homecoming. It was Homecoming season. His little sister was going to Homecoming and he was missing it.

Hurriedly, he ducked down and put a snapback on to hide his hair. Sharpy kept scanning their things, and furrowed his eyebrows at him, “You okay?”

Patrick shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “No. My family- we need to leave.”

Sharpy’s eyes widened, and he nodded, ditching half the stuff left in the cart to pay the machine, grab the bags, and take off with Patrick out the doors.

Patrick locked himself in his room as soon as he got home, and didn't come out for the rest of the night.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed -- too busy crying and sleeping -- until Stick knocked on the door and came in without permission.

He sat down at the end of the bed, crossed his legs criss-cross. He hesitated, unsure of what to do. He wasn't good with _feelings._

“Kid.” He frowned, sympathetically, and Patrick was leaping into his lap and bursting into a new wave of tears.

Stick held him before Patrick could tumble off the bed, scooted back to the middle of the mattress. “It's alright, Pat. It's gonna be alright.”

Patrick let out a sob, rough and hard against his throat.

“They're safe, remember? They're safe, and it's because of you. You're keeping them alive.”

Patrick whimpered. He wiped his eyes with his hoodie sleeve. “I miss them.”

“I know you do. But remember, you being here is keeping them safe. Smith has no idea what your name is, so they have no idea who your family is. They're safe, Pat. Don't ever forget that. Don't ever forget you're a hero.”

\--▪--

**_Chicago, December 2018_ **

Most of the guys were crowded into the lounge room, watching some old black and white film on the stolen tv via the also stolen DVD player. The others were out handling a money collection, which shouldn't take too long.

Jonathan was pressed between the couch arm and Patrick. Their thighs were pressed together, knees knocking any time someone shifted. As much as Jonny still felt uncomfortable, even after a month, he couldn't help the faint blush he felt heat up at the apples of his cheeks.

Some of the kids scurried into the lounge area like a tiny army, and they all simultaneously broke off to go to their fathers. Maddy saw her father up against the front of the couch, and she bounded over with a grin.

“Daddy!” She squealed. “Come help us make cookies!”

“Cookies?” Duncs asked, picking Colton up and plopping him in his lap.

“Yeah!” Carter Seabrook nodded enthusiastically up at his own father. “Christmas cookies! Mommy says we can put them out for Santa tonight!”

Jonathan's mouth went dry abnormally quick. “Tonight?” He asked faintly.

“Yeah! It's Christmas Eve!” Adriana Anisimov cheered, then proceeded to pull Artem off the floor and to the connecting kitchen.

The men who had children tugging at them followed the kids into the kitchen. A couple of guys without kids got up and went to join in the baking. Jonathan, however, was still seated, feeling lightheaded and weak.

It’s Christmas Eve.

Jonny suddenly felt very, very sick.

“Hey,” Patrick knocked their knees together, a light touch that didn't hurt at all, but Jonathan still flinched, “You okay?”

Jon swallowed his spit once, twice, trying to rid his mouth of the dryness. “I- uh, I need a minute.”

He got up and fled up the stairs to his room, passing by some of the kids. They immediately started bemoaning Jonny not coming to help, and he slammed his door shut the moment he was inside his room.

He collapsed on the floor, trying to calm his erratic breathing. He pulled his knees to his chest and grabbed his hair, trying to focus on the dull pain and not the panic and sadness welling up inside him.

It would be his first Christmas without his family. The family that didn't know where he was, if he was dead or alive or lost or being tortured or-

Jonathan inhaled sharply, sucking spit down his lungs. He coughed, struggling for air because all of a sudden he can't _breathe._

There's a cluster of footsteps, fuzzy in his ears, and then two hands on either side of his back, two on his knees.

“Breathe, Jon,” he heard Patrick's voice cut through the ringing in his ears, “Deep breaths.”

“I c-c… I ca-” He coughed again. He was faint, felt off, and he could feel his heart slamming against his ribcage, skipping beats and then trying to make up for it by more beats in rapid succession.

“Sit up,” Patrick said, stern, “Lean him against the wall.”

The two guys on either side of him slid him backwards until his back hit the wall, and they pressed his shoulders, hard. His spine straightened, and he was forced to look up through the blurriness.

Patrick was in front of him, looking at him worried, and Seabs was to his right. He couldn't tell who was on his left, but he vaguely smelled Duncs's stolen Montblanc cologne.

Instinctively, he reached out to Patrick, grabbing onto his arm frantically, nails digging into his flesh. Patrick, for his part, didn't seem to mind. He moved to take place of Seabs, and mumbled, “I've got him; you go.”

Somewhat hesitant, Seabs and Duncs left, and if Jonathan weren't in the middle of a panic attack, he'd be touched that they were worried about him.

“In and out, Jon,” Patrick coached him softly, “Follow me.”

Patrick inhaled and exhaled, overexaggerated, but Jon did his best to copy his breathing, taking deep, long intakes of air and slow, heavy exhales.

By the ninth or tenth time, Jon was better, and he couldn't help but weakly snicker at how stupid Patrick looked doing the model breaths.

Patrick smiled at him, genuine and gentle. “There you are. Take it easy, bud.”

They were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, and Jon was helpless against the urge to melt into his touch. He slouched sideways, leaning his head against Patrick’s. Patrick didn't say anything about it, just used his free arm to cup Jon's knee in his whole hand and left it there.

“I'm sorry.” Jon whispered, voice scratchy and airy, and it hurt a little to talk.

“Don't ever be sorry for having a panic attack, dude, what the fuck.” Patrick snorted. “But seriously, what happened? Do you have, like, Christmas PTSD or something?”

Jon grimaced. “No. It's-” he swallowed, trying to soothe his throat, “It’s my first- first Christmas without my family.” His words came out slow, thinking about how to form each syllable because he had no energy to do it automatically. “They're… they’re probably so scared.”

Patrick frowned. He knew Christmas would be hard on Jonathan -- all holidays would be hard. He didn't deserve to get punished for saving Patrick's life, and yet here they where.

“I'm sorry, Jonathan,” he sighed, squeezing Jon's knee, “I know how much you miss them.”

“I wish I could see them again, you know?” Jon sniffled, wiping his nose with his shirt sleeve, “Even if I can't go up to them, watch from a distance. Just to see them, know they're okay and safe.”

“Where do they live?” Patrick asked. “If they're nearby, maybe we can set something up-”

“They're in Winnipeg,” Jon shook his head, wincing at the throbbing pain behind his eyes and at the back of his head, “up in Manitoba. Canada.”

“You're Canadian?” Patrick asked, surprised, then focused on the important part. “You were gonna fly up, then?”

“S'what I've done since I moved to Chicago.”

Patrick tilted his head more against Jon's. “I'm sorry I have to keep you from your family. You know- you know that it's not my intention, right? This isn't some punishment.”

“I know.” Jon said. “You're protecting everyone here, including the girls and the kids. It's part of your job.”

“But I don't want you to feel like helping me came at the price of your family, or your freedom. Everyone here -- the guys in the mob, Abby and Dayna and all the wives and girlfriends, all the kids -- they're a family. We're all our own family. If you don't want to be a part of it, it's okay. I know you have your own family that you love.”

Patrick closed his eyes. His heart was beating faster, for a reason he couldn't point out. “But if you want to, whenever you want to, you're always welcome to be a part of ours.”

Jonathan stayed silent, and they sat in the quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the calmness. Eventually, Jonathan's fingers let go of Patrick's arm, extracting his nails from Patrick's skin.

Blood welled up in small dots in the little crescent moon shapes that were indented into his skin. Jonathan frowned and swiped his thumb over the blood. It spread over the skin. Patrick didn't so much as blink.

“I'm sorry for that,” Jon winced, “Here, let me- you keep first aid kits in all the rooms, right?”

Patrick shook his head, “Only yours.”

“What? Why?”

“I thought you might need it.”

Jonathan didn't ask what he meant, just went to the bathroom to fish the first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink. When he returned, he sat in front of Patrick and took his arm, started disinfecting the wounds with peroxide.

Patrick only flinched once, and Jon had to give him props. When he finished cleaning the cuts, he wrapped them in gauze and taped it together with waterproof sports tape.

“Thank you.” Patrick looked at Jonathan, eyes filled with curiosity, and something else.

Jonathan smiled back, small, but genuine. “You're welcome. But this doesn't make us even. You’re still holding me captive.”

Patrick shrugged, as if saying _fair enough._

The next day, Jonathan watched as the kids opened their presents and the adults exchange their own. Jonathan, who hadn't been able to go out and get things, felt very guilty for accepting the gifts that some of the guys gave him, but he made it up by helping the women with dinner.

He missed his family, _so much._ But sitting around, eating with people sprawled across the lounge room and furniture, surrounded by smiles and laughter, embarrassed shouting when people started telling stories- Jonny felt a little more whole.

He was starting to feel like he belonged.

\--▪--

**_Anahiem, July 2009_ **

Panarin was dead.

Patrick had been waiting at the makeshift base for the guys to come back from a business meeting, hanging out with some of the other mob wives that had tagged along.

When the mob returned, Patrick immediately knew that something was wrong by the way that Stick was eerily calm and collected, even though he just came back from a meeting with an enemy mob.

They were also covered in blood.

“Patrick,” Stick said, “We need to talk.”

Stick had pulled him aside and told him the news: the meeting with Kesler didn't go well, and all of a sudden they're were guys shooting at one another, and Panarin was caught in the crossfire protecting Seabs from getting hit instead.

Patrick didn't cry.

He didn't know what to do.

The funeral was the day they got back to Chicago, once Abby had cleaned up Artemi and made him look presentable. They buried him in the lot of trees behind the base.

Patrick stared at the hole that some of the guys had begun to fill, hiding Panarin’s body and laying him to rest. His chest was tight, eyes hot while he fought not to cry.

He wouldn't cry. Deaths in the mob world happen all the time. It's just another reason not to get attached to those he works with.

He nodded to himself. Yeah. No more getting attached.

Stick squeezed his shoulder, tight, enough to give Patrick something to focus on. Sharpy stood on his other side, staring at the grave with wet eyes and a sullen face.

“We're gonna make them pay, Peekaboo.”

Patrick furrowed his eyebrows. “Peekaboo?”

“Yep. It's the nickname I'm gonna give you. We all need a little something to shake us out of this. You seem like the kind of guy to just pop in and take charge, like a game of peekaboo.”

Stick chuckled a little. “Peekaboo. I like that. Alright, Peeks. What's your game plan here?”

Patrick’s eyes never left the grave. He was going to avenge his fallen brother, even if it started war.

“I'm gonna give Smith what’s coming to him,” Patrick glared. Fears be damned. If he had to kill this son of a bitch, he would, “before he takes someone else.”

Too bad he wasn't fast enough.

\--▪--

**_Chicago, February 2019_ **

Jonathan had to be going insane.

Because he was starting to think he was developing _feelings_ for Patrick.

Really, he’d lost his mind.

“We have a meeting with Geno Malkin of the U.S. group of the Russian Mob,” Patrick had announced, “We have time to prepare: the meeting is May fifth. But we need to be ready for anything. This could mean we gain a powerful ally, or we gain a powerful enemy. I'll be available for training, so let me know. Rookies, follow me.”

Now, Jonathan was watching as Patrick trained with the three new guys -- Fortin, Schmaltz, and Hayden.

“Come at me,” Patrick demanded, “with everything you have.”

They lunged at him all at once, and Patrick easily ducked, threw Schmaltzy over his shoulder, and in six short moves, had Hayds pinned under his foot, Schmaltzy on the ground, dazed, and Fortin held at gunpoint.

“Rule number eight, boys,” Patrick grinned, sleazy, “Never attack at once. Your enemy will fight you as one, not as three; so fight as three, not as one.”

Some of the other guys came out, and soon, most of the mob were training, fighting each other with sticks to mimic daggers, using fists instead of guns. 

And then Patrick took off his shirt, and suddenly nothing else mattered except Patrick's _arms._

He watched from the back porch, mesmerized by the way Patrick's arms clenched, the way his thigh muscles bunched together under the loose cloth of his workout shorts. His bare skin glistened with a thin sheet of sweat. It was February in Chicago, and yet he was shirtless and sweating, the _weirdo._

Patrick moved easy, confident. He worked to show the boys new moves, tips, so that they didn't get themselves killed during a ‘mission,’ as Patrick had called them.

Jon was so out of it, he didn't hear Abby and Dayna sneak up behind him. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Jonathan startled so hard, he whacked himself on the brick of the house.

Abby responded in a mix of a chuckle and a coo. “Are you alright?” She asked, smiling. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

Jonathan blushed. “It's okay.”

Dayna hummed at him. “It's been a while since I've seen that look.”

Jonny blinked. “What look?”

Patrick walked over, grabbing a towel from the bench behind them. He smiled at them, and then at Jonathan specifically.

“Making small talk with the mob wives?” He teased, panting. “Maybe you'll become one of them.”

Stupidly, Jonathan blurted, “Fortin's pretty hot.”

Patrick laughed, smile stretching wide over his lips. “Well then, I wish you two the best of luck.” He gave Jonathan a once-over. “You _would_ be the wife.”

“Wha- would not!” Jon yelped, and Patrick hurried away before Jonathan could jump him.

When he looked back at Abby and Dayna, they were looking at him, a mix of amused and fond.

Jonathan curled in on himself, defensive. “What?”

“You like him.” Dayna grinned.

Jonathan squawked. “Wha- no! No, I don't. That's Stockholm Syndrome.”

“What _is_ Stockholm Syndrome, really?” Abby asked.

“It's when you fall in love with your captor.” Jon snipped.

Abby hummed and tapped her chin. “Maybe it would be when you're chained in a basement and your captor is bringing you a piece of bread once a day, and you start believing you love them and they love you because they're feeding you. _That_ is Stockholm Syndrome.”

 _“You,_ on the other hand, have, what we call, a crush.” Dayna agreed, “Because everyone knows that if you escaped, Patrick would let you go.”

Jonathan blinked, then backtracked. _“What?”_

“You cannot be that dense,” Kristy scoffed, walking out onto the back patio, “Come on, Jon.”

“I- he almost pulled a gun on me back in November.” Jonathan sputtered.

Kristy looked at him unamused. “That was three months ago. You're not his prisoner, Jonathan. You've realized this, right?”

Jonathan stared at them, helpless. No. No he hasn't.

Abby sighed, like this conversation had been tiring. “Alright, enough of this. He'll realize it eventually and freak out about it. Until then, you,” she pointed to him, “are going to watch the kids with Kristy while us ladies make dinner.”

“Ooo, whatcha makin’?” Seabs asked, Duncs and Patrick and Crow piling on his back.

Dayna snorted. “We're making lasagna for us wives and girlfriends- and whatever Jonny is. _You boys_ will have to find something on your own.”

Jonathan laughed at the chorus of moans and whines coming from the group of men behind them.

He turned his head and said over his shoulder, sassy, “If you want lasagna, you're gonna have to pitch in and help.”

Immediately, the men flooded into the base to hurry to the kitchen in hopes of helping enough to get dinner.

Abby laughed and high-fived him. “You're getting the hang of it.” She beamed. “You'll be one of us WAGs in no time.”

She called for the others and hustled into the kitchen. Jonathan stayed back a moment, preening at the praise.

He was doing _great._

\--▪--

**_Chicago, March 2019_ **

It's a month after the first announcement about the meeting that Jonathan finds out that he knows one of the guys in the Russian Mob.

“Geno is bringing over his husband, Sidney,” Patrick told them all, “For the love of God, be respectful. Geno will snap your necks in an instant.”

“Woah, wait, Sidney Crosby?” Duncs asked. “The dude that put the guys in Philly in line?”

“That's him.” Patrick nodded. “And he's more than capable of snapping a neck himself, so don't do anything stupid. I'm looking at you, Sharpy.”

Sharpy gasped dramatically. “You insult me!”

The group disbanded, and Jonathan grabbed Patrick's arm to stop him from walking away. “Sidney Crosby? As in, tall, but not too tall, black hair, Canadian?”

Patrick snapped his fingers. _“That's_ the accent.”

Jonathan dismissed the statement. “So yes? Dude, I know him.”

Patrick’s face went dark in an instant. “You do? How? Did he hurt you?”

Jonathan took half a second to bask in the sudden overprotectiveness wafting from the man in front of him, before saying, “No, no, not mob related. I knew him back in high school. I went to Nova Scotia for the summer for a hockey camp, and Sidney was there.”

Patrick’s face changed as quick as before. “Okay, good.”

Jon nodded. “I always wondered what had happened to him. The media said he was going to be the next Wayne Gretzky. But he just- disappeared.”

“Yeah, he ran off and married Geno,” Patrick said nonchalantly, walking down the hall to his study, in which Jonathan followed closely behind, “Joined the America-based group of the Russian Mob. Geno's the head of the gang. Knew some of the actual guys in Russia personally. That let him organize a mob in Pittsburgh.”

Jonathan scratched his face. “Geez.”

Patrick sat down at his desk with a hum and started filing through papers. Hesitantly, Jonathan asked, “Could I be present at the meeting?”

Instantly, Patrick replied, “No.”

Jonathan set his jaw. “Why not? I may be being held here, but I'm not exactly a prisoner. And besides, I know Sidney personally. We were friends. Maybe me being there can help reach some kind of agreement.”

“You mean I should try to use you and Sidney's friendship as a peace treaty?” Patrick questioned incredulously. “That's actually not bad.”

Jonathan grinned.

“But you can't guarantee that Sidney will care about your friendship,” Patrick mentioned, “No offense, Jon, but that was years ago, before either of you got caught up with the mobs. Sidney is Geno's right hand in command, his equal. He might not care about his past anymore.”

Jonathan was beginning to know the feeling.

He shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

“Fine,” Patrick sighed, “But you listen to what I say. Don't go and try your own thing. You're stubborn. It can get you killed.”

“It can also keep your head on straight.” Jon snorted.

Patrick smiled at him. “Abby's right. You're getting the hang of this.”

As much as it should anger him, disgust him that he’d even think of being a part of this on his own free will, Jonathan could help but feel giddy, happy that he was making Patrick proud and proving himself.

“Well, I've been told I'm observant.” Jonathan clipped, then turned and sauntered out. If he swung his hips a little bit, nobody had to know.

\--▪--

**_Chicago, April 2019_ **

Jonathan's first birthday away from his family was nearing, and yet, he didn't feel too upset. He had the guys, the wives, the kids. He was… content.

Yeah, he was content.

The meeting was next month, and Jonathan was nervous. The Russian Mob isn't something to take lightly, whether Jonny knew the consort or not.

The day before, Patrick had brought over Mrs. Miccoletti. Jonathan had forgotten in all the chaos that Mrs. Miccoletti was friends with Patrick and the rest of the mob. It was refreshing to meet with someone from his- past life.

“Here, I brought you some butter tarts,” she had told him, quiet and off to the side after throwing wrapped-up packages of brownies at the mob boys, “I remember how much you loved these. They're just for you. I made them special for your birthday, and to help make things seem a little more normal.”

Jonathan didn't cry, but he came close.

Saader tried to snatch one, but Jonathan kicked him in the shins before he could.

Currently, Jonny was out in the forest, practicing his shooting. There was a small hole in the middle of a tree, and he was trying to get as many bullets into the hole as he could. He'd only gotten three bullseyes, and he'd reloaded twice already.

“You're getting better,” Patrick’s voice snuck up from behind him, “I didn't think you'd ever want to learn, you know, mob stuff.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Might as well learn. I'll probably be here the rest of my life. Figure I should have _some_ way of protecting myself from your enemies.”

Patrick hummed, watched as Jonathan held the gun up again. He fired, missed, and the bullet soared past the tree and into a bush. Jonathan huffed in annoyance.

“Keep both eyes open,” Patrick told him, “Level your arms to your gaze. Breathe…” His hands slid around Jonny's triceps, fingers holding them in place, a light, gentle touch that Jonny never thought a mobster was capable of.

His lips came close to the side of Jonathan's face, so much that when he whispered, his breath was hot on his ear. Jonny’s heartbeat spiked. He could feel Patrick's curls brushing at his temples.

“...fire.”

Jonathan pulled the trigger, and the bullet landed square in the middle of the hole. He exhaled, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He turned his head, coming face to face with Patrick. They were close, so close, and it was only then that Jonathan realized that Patrick was shorter than him.

“A short mob boss,” he teased, voice light and airy, “Who’da thought.”

Patrick’s eyes flicked down to Jon's lips, then his eyes, and then suddenly they were kissing, hot and heavy and demanding. Jonathan dropped the gun, and it fell onto the grass with a soft rustle.

Jonathan balled his hands into Patrick’s white dress shirt collar, yanking him closer. Patrick clasped a hand around the back of Jonathan's neck, the other gripping at Jon's side.

Jonathan parted long enough to say, “This is wrong,” then kissed him again, then, “This is so, so wrong.”

Patrick only hummed and kissed him harder.

\--▪--

The first time they did anything, it started with Patrick being a horny little shit.

Jonny was helping the girls cook lunch. The guys had just come back from collecting money from old drug buyers.

“Superbirds?” Crow asked, quirking an eyebrow while he played with Cooper. “What's that?”

“It's basically just a fried -- I guess? -- sandwich with bacon, turkey, and cheese. And other condiments, if you want them.” Jonny replied, flipping the tenth sandwich he'd made. “You guys have a _lot_ of meat on stock.”

“We have a lot of people to feed.” Dayna laughed.

Patrick snuck up behind Jonathan and stole one of the pieces of bacon from the plate on the counter. On reflex, Jonathan smacked him with the spatula. “I don't think so!”

“Oh come on,” Pat whined, pressing up against Jonathan's back, “Please?”

“Fuck you, no.”

Patrick groaned, pressing closer. _“Pretty please?”_

Jonathan put the sandwich on a plate and took a shaky breath. “No, I need all the bacon to make enough sandwiches for everyone.”

Patrick huffed. “Fine.” But he didn't let off.

“Get off me, you oaf.” Jon tried shoving him off, pushing backwards to make him lose balance.

It startled both of them when Patrick let out a quiet moan.

Jonathan froze, deer-in-headlights. He felt Patrick lean closer, lips grazing Jon's ear. “Your ass is obscene.”

Jon sucked in a sharp breath. He looked around, but no one was paying attention to them- just to the kids running around the kitchen.

“You are _not_ fucking me.” He snapped, flipped the stove off, and turned in Patrick’s arms. He was unprepared for the red flush on Patrick’s cheeks and by his hairline. His stupid, stupid hairline. “I'll jerk you off, though.”

Patrick involuntarily canted his hips, and the bulge in his pants rubbed again Jon's. Jonathan's hands were shaking, suddenly nervous, but he grabbed Patrick's shoulder. “Well?”

Patrick nodded viciously. He grabbed Jon's arm and yanked him away from the stove, out of the kitchen, and up the stairs.

“Slow down, you horndog.” Jonny sputtered. Patrick ignored him and pushed them into his room.

“Quite a scene you just made,” Jonathan breathed, pressing Patrick up against the door to his room the moment it shut, “Now they all know.”

He ripped open Patrick’s button-up, pushed it down his big arms until the blond tossed it to the floor. “Good,” Patrick shoved him towards the bed, “Now they'll know you're off limits.” He tugged at the hem of Jon's shirt, “Your turn.”

Jonny threw the v-neck across the room, not caring where it ended up.

Jonny's never been in Patrick's room, but he was surprised to find that it was as small as his own, and just as bland, nothing big or major for being a mob boss.

“What if I wanna fuck around?” Jonathan teased, breath knocked out of him when Patrick pushed him hard onto the bed. “Like I said before, Fortin's pretty hot.”

Obviously, Jon wasn't going to fuck Alexandre, wasn't gonna fuck anyone but Patrick, because somehow this noodle-haired idiot has Jonathan thinking all kinds of bad things. Patrick knows it, too.

But, he had to admit, it was very satisfying to see Patrick's face darken over, the way it does when he gets protective and possessive. “Don't even think about it. You're _mine.”_

“I don't belong to anyone.” Jonathan hissed, but grabbed Patrick by the back of his head and tugged him down.

Patrick smirked at him, wide and mischievous. “Fuck, that's hot.”

Patrick's hands were down the front of his pants before he could blink. They shoved his jeans and boxers down and out of the way, and a big, callused hand wrapped around his dick.

Jonathan choked. His hand was still curled in Patrick's hair, and he clenched, dragging Patrick close to kiss him.

“Oh God.” Jon gasped. He reached a free hand between them and thumbed open the button on Patrick's slacks, pulled the zipper and pulled his pants and underwear down to his knees.

Jonny pulled away to get a look and all plans for a double-jerkoff session flew out the window because _holy god,_ Patrick had a _nice_ dick.

He groaned and batted Patrick’s hand off of him. “Stay.” He commanded, then slithered down the bed so that Patrick's dick was bobbing against his face.

“Jonny-” Pat went to say, but he cut himself off when Jonathan wrapped his lips around the tip. Patrick yelped. Jon's hands came up Patrick's thighs, wrapped around his hips, and held.

Jonny… has never sucked a dick before.

“I'm knew at this,” he told Patrick, “So, uh, yeah.” He got his mouth back on Patrick, and all words Patrick was trying say died in his throat.

Jon worked lower, trying to fit as much of Patrick in his mouth as he could. He relaxed his throat, breathed through his nose, closed his eyes and went to work.

Patrick was a mess above him, moaning and writhing, unable to control his volume. Jonny was flattered, really. Pat shifted his weight onto one arm and his knees. He took his newly free hand and reached down, fisting Jonny's hair.

Jonny moaned happily, and Patrick bucked forward deeper into his throat. His cock hit the back of Jon's throat, and he choked, pulling off quickly to cough and catch his breath.

“Shit, shit, sorry,” Patrick panted, “God, you're so good, baby, so so good.”

Jonathan tilted his head to lick at Patrick’s balls, hanging heavy between his legs. He nuzzled his nose into Patrick’s thigh and _bit,_ and Patrick howled.

Jonathan licked over the mark that was already reddening up. He hummed. “Now I've marked you.”

“Territorial much?” Patrick scoffed, but he was weak and desperate behind his words.

“Much.” Jon agreed, and put his mouth back on Pat.

It was sloppy and messy, very unpracticed. Spit slipped out of his mouth, not knowing how to swallow without choking. It rolled up his cheek, and somehow it made Patrick even more aroused.

Patrick moved his hand from Jonny's hair to swipe his thumb through the mess on Jonny's cheeks, smearing the spit and precome spilling from his lips. “God, baby, taking my cock so well. So pretty like this.”

Jonny wrapped his hand around the base and pumped what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. His knuckles bumped against his lips, and he kept them there for a moment, before going at it again.

Patrick fell apart, shaking above him. He tugged on Jon's hair in warning. Jonny pulled off and jacked him off until Patrick came, exploding onto his face and lips and tongue.

Jon swallowed what had gotten into his mouth and grimaced. Patrick slumped back onto his heels and gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, it's bitter.”

Jonathan fell backwards against the pillows, and he smiled when he felt Patrick wipe his face off with the button-up. When he was clean, Patrick kissed him again.

“That- that was amazing.” He panted, “So good for me. I'm gonna return the favor, yeah?”

Jonny groaned, thrusting his hips up. Now that he didn't have Patrick’s dick to distract him, he was suddenly, painfully aware of how _hard_ he was.

“Fuck, your hand. Want your hand.” He whimpered, “God.”

Patrick wasted no time in getting a hand on him. The first touch was a bolt of electricity because he was _not_ prepared for the warm and slippery hand that encased his dick. _Shit,_ Patrick was using his come as lube.

Patrick jacked him, tight and quick. Jonny squirmed, pinned beneath Patrick and his broad muscles. His breaths were erratic, and in a dozen strokes, Jonny was arching off the bed and spilling onto Patrick's hand with a wail.

Pat stroked him through the aftershocks, then dropped Jonny's dick so it landed on his stomach with a _plop._

It took him a good while to come back to earth. There was such a nice floating feeling going on in his head.

When he came back to himself, Patrick was kneeling beside him and wiping him off with a warm cloth. He tossed it somewhere carelessly, then settled into the bed next to Jon.

“Lunch is probably ready.” Jonny said quietly, eyes falling shut.

“They'll leave some for us.” Patrick responded, and Jonny could hear the smugness in his voice. Jonathan hit as his chest weakly, but smiled nevertheless, and snuggled closer in Patrick's arms.

So maybe Patrick was a mob boss. But the thing is, Jonathan realized, that it didn’t matter so much what someone had done, but who they were, and why.

Basically, Jonathan doesn't give a damn anymore, and he loves it.

\--▪--

 

**_Chicago, May 2019_ **

With the ice broken, and Jonny’s newfound acceptance of the mob and mob life, things started becoming easier.

Jonny didn't wake up nervous anymore. He was more confident, and he fit perfectly with the team, as he'd begun to call them. It was nice, helping the girls around the base, distracting the kids when the guys were gone.

Jonny and Patrick had fallen into bed three times since the start of April. Last night had been the fourth.

Patrick woke before him. Jonny knew, because he woke to knuckles brushing softly against his face, whispering praises in his ear. Jonny didn't even open his eyes; he just melted into the feeling of Patrick’s body, solid and warm next to him.

He never meant for this to happen.

He never meant to become part of a mob -- never meant to fall for the enemy. They practically kidnapped him, but…

But they care about him. Sure, he's got plenty of people who care about him, but not like they do- not like Pat does.

He ponders this a lot, now, for instance, naked and wrapped up snug against Patrick's bare chest. The white duvet is messy, crunched around their bodies, and Jonny can just see the bright full moon outside the window, drapes open only a sliver, per Jonny's request.

“My mother always told me to stay away from people like you,” Jonathan whispered, curling into the hand that cupped his cheek, “You're dangerous.”

Patrick smirked at him, knuckles brushing against Jon’s skin; gentle, loving, everything Jonny ever wanted. Jonny closed his eyes, slid his hand up to wrap around Pat's wrist, let himself forget last night's raid, the plans for tonight's meeting with Geno and Sid and the Russian Mob.

It's funny, what you do for love. Patrick's lucky that Jonny knew Sidney from high school, or else Chicago might be in for a mob war. Pat's lucky to have him, really.

Jon's lucky to have Pat.

"I'm dangerous to some, sweetheart," Patrick crooned lowly into his ear, kissing the mole on his neck, loving, possessive, "But never to you."

After all, Stockholm Syndrome is just a fancy term for falling in love.

\--▪--

The night of the meeting, Jonathan found himself pacing. The main guys were set up in the meeting room, which contained a medium-sized kitchen table, four chairs, two couches, and a loveseat.

The meeting would take place with Patrick and Jonny, plus Duncs, Seabs, Crow, and Sharpy. Saader, Krugs, and Anisimov would be guarding the doors outside the base, while Hayds, Brinksy, and Schmaltzy guarded the doors outside the meeting room. Everyone else would be scattered about the base, staying on their toes.

“The kids are put up, right?” Jonny asked, biting his thumbnail.

“Yes, they're all in Abby's room with Kristy and Alyssa.” Patrick assured him. He took Jonny's arms and held him still. “Everything will be fine. Geno is a very reasonable man.”

“This is the Russian Mob, Pat,” Jonny fretted, “Nothing about this is reasonable.”

There was a knock on the door, and Sharpy poked his head through it to talk to Hayds. He said something, then closed the door again. “They're here, boss.”

Patrick stood on his tiptoes to kiss Jonny's forehead. Jonny cracked a little smirk, and Patrick grinned triumphantly. “There's that smile.”

The guys took their seats on the couches and loveseat while Patrick left to greet their visitors and take them to the meeting room. Jonathan waited nervously, ears straining, as if trying to hear any scuffle or gunshot.

But it didn't come. Patrick returned, and in tow was a tall, bulky Russian man, and behind him was Sidney Crosby from hockey camp. Just, with less baby face, and more mob.

Jonathan dimly noticed new men -- most likely Malkin's -- standing guard with the Chicago guys.

“Gentlemen, these are my closest men: Brent Seabrook, Patrick Sharp, Corey Crawford, and Duncan Keith.” Patrick introduced. “And this is my romantic partner, Jonathan Toews.

 _Romantic partner._ Jonny should mock him later for being so blunt, but he couldn’t get passed the surge of pride, because Patrick just technically called Jonny his _boyfriend,_ and wow, that was great.

From behind Malkin, Jon saw Sidney’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Shall we get started?” Patrick asked, and Malkin nodded his agreement. The four of them sat down at the table, Patrick and Jonny at one side, Malkin and Sidney at the other. Malkin and Patrick were facing one another.

Both bosses began talking, trying to work out an arrangement. Jonny felt very, helplessly lost.

Luckily, Sidney was just as kind and I-will-teach-you-everything-I-know-young-one as he was back in hockey camp.

“We basically listen,” Sidney whispered, “If we want to point something out, we can, but they're working out who-gets-what in the peace treaty. That's really between the two of them.”

Jonny nodded, and smiled in thanks. “It's been a while, Crosby.”

Sidney smiled back kindly. “It's Crosby-Malkin now, actually.”

“Yeah? That's great, man.” Jonathan beamed quietly, “I never would have pictured you as a mobster, though.”

Sidney shrugged. “Hockey was my life. Then I met Geno, and _he_ became my life. It's all I needed.”

“Well, I'm happy that you're happy. But- how do you do it? I've only really been part of the Chicago Mob for a couple months.”

“It's always going to be hard. I miss my family. I constantly wonder how Taylor's doing, what I'm missing.” Sidney admitted. “But, I remember what I have here: my husband, a new family, and having a bunch of overprotective guys -- and wives -- protecting you is pretty nice, too.”

Jonny snorted, “Glad I'm not the only one.”

“Sid,” Malkin's rolling, accented voice interrupted them, “What you think of this?”

Sidney peered at the paper and where Geno was pointing.

_13d.) In exchange for new weaponry (guns, ammunition, knives, etc.) once every six months, the Russian Mob will receive 35% of all pay and income (in American dollars) that the Chicago Mob makes in that set amount of time._

_| -- > Six months beginning with the first day of the first month until thirty days exactly have passed. February's missing two (2) days will not count for extra pay at any time. _

Sidney hummed a little and frowned. “Thirty-five percent is a little low, don't you think?”

Jonathan slid one of the contracts over and read the section.

Patrick quirked an eyebrow. “The Chicago Mob makes considerably less money than the Russian Mob, which is stationed in both Russia and other parts of the U.S.”

“Still,” Malkin argued, “Thirty-five percent is too little. No deal if numbers stay.”

Patrick's jaw ticked, “You’d give up an ally because of a money percentage?”

Malkin sat up straighter. “Money percentage insults Russian Mob's dignity.”

Panic began to bubble up inside Jonathan when he realized that this was the beginning of a conflict. And because he works best under pressure-

“We can't raise it to fifty percent, because like Patrick said, you make a lot more money than we do. But what about forty?”

Malkin stared at him, hard. “Fifty.”

“Geno,” Sidney warned, soft and calming, placing a hand over the top of his husband's, “Stop being stubborn.” He turned to Jonathan. “Forty-five.”

Jonathan glanced at Patrick and saw him wince. He leveled Sidney's stare, cool and collected. “Forty-two. That way it's about half of forty-five, and we only lose seven percent instead of fifteen.”

Sidney paused a moment to think, before nodding. “I think that sounds reasonable. Geno?”

Sidney shot Malkin a hard, warning look, and Malkin sighed in defeat. “I will agree to forty-two.”

Jonathan looked over at Patrick, and saw him pondering, looking torn. Jonathan hummed, slightly annoyed. He put his hand on Patrick's thigh and squeezed, nails digging sharply into his slacks and his skin.

Patrick hissed. “Alright, alright. Forty-two.”

Behind them, Seabs and Duncs cheered and clasped hands.

They went through the rest of the arrangement without any other problems. “Got yourself a second in command, Kane.” Malkin said, signing his signature on both contracts, before passing them to Patrick. “He is very smart.”

“He’s a clever little fucker, I'll tell you that,” Patrick retorted, and Jonathan stomped on his foot. The blond groaned, then slid the contracts to Jonathan. “But thank you.”

Jonathan took a moment because _oh,_ Jonathan was signing mob contracts. He was a part of all of this. He was _important._

He hesitated, because this was it. If he signed his, he'd legally be part of a mob, because he's _signing_ his _signature_ on a legal mob document, saying he was _a part of this._

Before anyone could question his pause, he clicked the pen.

To save time, he passed one contract to Sidney while he signed, and when they were done, they switched.

Malkin chuckled at them. “Always make things easy.”

Jonathan blinked at him, deadpan. “I've been told I overcomplicate things.”

Sidney burst into honking laughter, but the others didn't get the old inside hockey humor.

Jonathan smiled at him, amused. “Would you and your men like to stay for dinner?”

“That's almost eighty people to feed.” Sidney tilted his head, considering. “Alright, but let me help you.”

Jonathan scoffed, “What, you think I was going to tell you to make yourself at home? Please.”

Patrick inhaled sharply, because _attitude._

But Sidney only grinned. Jon stood, Sidney followed suit, and they exited the meeting room together. Patrick and Malkin stared at the door in disbelief.

“What,” Malkin asked, “just happened?”

Patrick only snorted, “Canadians.”

Sidney, Malkin, and the rest of their men left the next day, after Jonny assured them the Russian Mob could all bunk in three rooms the Chicago Mob could spare. That meant that Jonny, the three rookies, and Patrick were all stuffed into the room with the kids.

It made for a semi-team cuddle, though, so it all worked out.

\--▪--

**_Chicago, June 2019_ **

Jonny had been in his closet, shuffling around trying to find a gun Pat had apparently stashed in it, when he found the photo.

It was old, ripped and bent at the edges. It was discolored, a little yellowish brown. Patrick was in it, younger, more baby-faced like a teenager. There was someone else with him, lounging on the couch, beer bottle in hand. They were laughing, and Jonny thought, wow. Patrick looks really pretty when he's smiling.

“Jonny? You find it yet?” Patrick asked, pushing the door to the bedroom open.

“No,” Jonny answered, “But I found this.”

He showed the picture to Patrick, and immediately, his smile faltered. He stepped forward until he was by Jonny's side, crouched down to take the picture.

He stared at it for a long moment, thumb tracing over the other man's face in the photo.

“What?” Jonny asked. “What is it?”

Patrick took another moment to be silent, before he answered. “We need to talk.”

Suddenly concerned, Jonathan followed Patrick out the door and down the stairs. Patrick pulled Jonny out of the house, out to the backyard where the forest was.

“We've buried two guys back here. One was Artemi Panarin. He was killed during a meeting in Philly.”

They approached two graves. One was half covered by a blueberry bush. The one next to it was covered in sticks.

“That’s one of the reasons the Russian Mob has been a partial ally.” Patrick explained. “They’re enemies with Philly, too, have been for years.”

Patrick motioned to the grave covered in sticks.

“This is the mob boss before me. His name was Stick.” He told Jon, throat getting tight. “Back in 2004, I accidentally interrupted a meeting between the Chicago Mob and this bad gang leader. Smith. The next few weeks were a blur. Stick tried to tell me that Smith would come after me, but I didn't listen. I didn't want to be a mobster, you know?”

Yeah, Jonny knows.

“But Smith- he cornered me one day. I was out getting groceries for my family. I was talking to this man and his daughter, and he just came out of nowhere. He attacked me. I tried, you know? To stop him. I really tried, but I wasn't strong enough. He killed that little girl right in front of me and her dad, shot her in the head.”

Patrick was beginning to tremble, and Jonny reached out to hold his hand.

“I remember her dad screaming. Oh my God, it still haunts me. It's in my dreams- all the time. Then Smith killed him, too.” He inhaled shakily. “Stick and the CM came to help me. But it was all over by then, and so was the life I'd had. I had to give it all up to protect my family. Smith said he'd get me. I wasn't gonna let my family get hurt because of me. So I joined the mob.”

Tears were falling down his face, now. “Stick taught me everything. He was the world to me. He protected me, trained me, made me the man I am today. He became my second father. And then Smith, he- he took it away.”

\--▪--

**_Chicago, July 2012_ **

Patrick had tagged along on another outing with the mob when it happened.

They were meeting with a couple guys from a gang that wanted drugs or something. Patrick couldn't remember the details after the first gunshot went off.

Smith sauntered into view. He smirked at the mob, and immediately, everyone raised their guns. Smith smirked and snapped his fingers at his men, “Get ‘em.”

A fight broke out. Patrick leapt into action, sucker punched the first guy that came at him. He hurried to help Stick, who was being surrounded.

He shot two of them, making a path for him to get to Stick, and narrowly avoided a bullet that came at him. Sharpy followed him in, and together, the three of them took on the surrounding men.

Smith pushed Crow out of the way, and he slammed hard against the concrete. Smith pointed his gun and fired.

Patrick’s shoulder erupted in a searing pain. He grabbed at it, and just as quick as the first gunshot, a second whizzed by his head and cut his cheek.

Patrick stumbled backwards and slammed his head into the brick wall of the alley.

“Kaner!” Seabs shouted, reaching out to grab him.

Smith fired again, but before the bullet could hit him, he was shoved out of the way and into Seabs's arms.

The was a chorus of yells, and Crow blearily shot Smith three times in the leg in rapid succession in mist of his vertigo.

Patrick blinked the blood and sweat from his eyes to see how he was still alive.

And there on the ground was Stick, a bullet through his chest.

 _“No!”_ Patrick cried, strangled, and tore himself from Seabs to collapse at Stick's side. “Oh my God. Stick.”

Smith escaped in the chaos.

Stick coughed, blood seeping from his mouth. Patrick put his hands over the bullet wound, pressed hard. Stick's blood flooded through his fingers.

“Stick,” Patrick sobbed, “Please, please no. Come on, stay with me, man- _no keep your eyes open!”_

Stick choked on his own blood, looking up at Patrick, dazed. “I-it's okay, Peeks,” he sputtered, “Easy.”

“Easy?” Patrick wailed incredulously, “Shut up, just- just stop talking. We- we need to get you to the base. Abby’ll fix it. We-”

Stick reached up to grab Patrick's hand over his chest, paying no mind to the blood. “Wasn't gon-gonna let my best guy d-die.”

Patrick cried harder, putting more force against wound, a weak attempt to stop a fate already sealed.

Stick smiled at him, weak, but genuine, tears in his eyes. “It's gonna be okay, Peeks.”

His eyes fell shut, and Patrick felt when Stick exhaled for the last time.

Patrick screamed.

It was a desperate attempt to stop hyperventilating, one that wasn't working, and wouldn't bring Stick back.

He broke into sobs, tearing from his chest and throat. He collected Stick's body, pressed it close to him, and rocked them, his tears mixing with both of their blood, staining their clothes and the concrete beneath them.

Patrick hadn't been fast enough.

\--▪--

**_Chicago, May 2019_ **

Patrick curled in on himself when he was done telling Jonny the story. Jonny wrapped his arms around him, pulled him close while the blond struggled not to cry.

“Patrick, hey, shh babe.” He crooned, holding him tight. “Oh God, I'm so sorry you went through that.”

Patrick grunted a little, hands balled in Jonny's shirt, trying to gather himself. “Stick was my f-amily, when I had to leave my real one behind. And then Smith took him, too.”

Jonathan rubbed his back, suddenly thankful for the height difference so he could press Patrick against his chest and cradle his head. Patrick fit perfectly against him.

“Is that when you became Boss?” Jonny murmured into Patrick's hair.

Patrick sniffed, sighing out sharply and wiping his eyes. “Yeah; someone had to take over.”

“That was you, huh?” Jonny said with a small smile. “Patrick, I'm so proud of you. You lost someone so important to you, and instead of leaving everyone in the dust, you stepped up and took over.”

Patrick pulled away, taking a shaky breath. He was calm now, tears gone, but eyes red at the edges. “They're my family too.” He frowned, then, and his face fell. “I'm so sorry that I took you from your family. I should know better than anyone what that's like.”

Jonathan shrugged. “I've...gotten over it by now. I've been here for six months, and I was welcomed with open arms in one.” He scratched the back of his neck bashfully. “I guess I have a new perspective on mobs.”

Patrick smirked, “So what you're saying is, you've tapped into your dark side.”

Jonny rolled his eyes, but shoved at him fondly. “I guess so.”

\--▪--

**_Chicago, August 2012_ **

They had Stick's funeral a week later.

Seabs, Duncs, Krugs, and DeBrincat dug a grave next to Panarin's. They made it deep enough to cover for decades.

Sharpy, Crow, Fortin, and Patrick carried the wooden box with Stick's body inside. They put it in the ground, and everyone started tossing dirt onto the top of the coffin. Eventually, a couple took shovels and finished burying.

Stromer picked up a stick from the ground and placed it on the grave. Fortin copied him, then Seabs, then Duncs, and soon, Stick's grave was spilling over the top with twigs and sticks.

Sharpy approached Patrick cautiously, held out his hand and a stick.

Patrick's eyes filled with fresh tears as took the stick. He walked over to the grave and dropped it on top of the others.

That was goodbye.

He stated behind as the others started the track back to the base. He stared at the grave for a long time.

He didn't cry.

\--▪--

**_Chicago, September 2019_ **

Mobs kill people. There's no way around it.

Jonny’s never been on any mob outings or meetings. So, he's never witnessed actual shootings first-hand.

But he knows exactly what happened when the guys come back, and Patrick's cradling a cut-open hand while Krugs’s shirt is splattered with blood stains.

“What happened?” Jonny asked, hurrying over to Patrick to examine his hand.

“Some guy thought he could take us instead if paying,” Sharpy rolled his eyes, “Pulled a knife on Fortin and Kaner took the hit.”

“Always playing hero, eh?” Jonny cracked a smile. “Come on. I've got this one, Abby.”

He led Patrick to the bathroom and sat him on the closed toilet seat lid. “Don't move.”

“Don't tell me what to do.”

Jonny smirked and grabbed the peroxide and some gauze. He wet a washcloth and sat on the edge of the bathtub, took Pat's hand, and started to wipe off the blood.

“You're pretty reckless, you know.”

Patrick shrugged. “Not gonna let the kid get hurt on my watch.”

Jonny smiled softly at him. He poured the peroxide on the cut and then on a cotton ball. He dabbled the cut, using the thumb of his free hand to rub soothing circles on Pat's hand.

“You're a good leader.”

Patrick didn't respond, only watched as Jonny wrapped up his hand in gauze across the middle of his palm.

“Hey,” Jonny frowned, leaning forward to press his lips to Patrick's, “You did good.”

Patrick's upper lip twitched. “You weren't there. How do you know?”

Jonny hummed against Pat's lips. “Because I know you.”

Patrick put their foreheads together. “I don't know what you see in me. I took everything from you.”

Jonny shrugged. “You took my old life, yeah; but you gave me a new one.”

Patrick didn't look convinced, so Jonny wrapped his arms around Patrick's middle and tugged him close. He put their foreheads together and leaned in for a kiss, pecking once, twice, then a third time, longer and deeper. Patrick hummed contently against his lips.

They parted, and Jonny said, “I love you.”

Patrick froze.

It took Jonny a moment to comprehend the reaction. He pulled back more to get a better look at him. “Pat?”

“Uh,” Patrick blunked, then recovered, “Thank you. I don't- I don't think I'm there yet, yeah? But there's something there.”

Jonny tried to ignore the pain he felt from the words. But he hid it easily; Patrick’s a mob boss. Of course he'd have trouble loving someone, especially after all he's been through. Jonny has no right to judge him for it.

“It's okay,” he breathed in response, cupping Patrick's jaw and rubbing his thumb over the stubble there. He wants to feel that burn between his thighs, wants Patrick to go down and eat him out into the sunset, but for now, he just says, “Just means it'll mean even more whenever you say it, if ever.”

“There'll be an ever, I promise.” Patrick assured him, and kissed him again.

Jonny bundled them into the bed and wrapped them up in the blankets. Jonny tucked his hands under Patrick's shirt, runs his hands up and down Pat's abs.

Patrick sighed happily and connected their lips. His hands wandered down the hard planes of Jonny's back, down to his ads, and squeezed. It overflowed in his hands, seeping through his fingers, hands not big enough to hold more than half of each.

The kisses became more heated, harder and biting with each second that passed. Jonny felt Patrick chubbing up against his thigh, and it sent a pang of glee through him knowing that he was able to do that to Pat.

Patrick moaned and pushed his hips into Jonny's. He moved his hand over Jonny's chest, anchored it to the mattress by his shoulder. He changed to a steady grind, hissing when Jonny sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit.

“You're evil.” The blond murmured, chains falling from the collar of his shirt and onto Jonny's collarbone.

Jonny hooked a finger over one of them and tugged. “Guess I'm embracing my inner mobster.”

Patrick grinned and stuck his hands down Jonny's pants.

\--▪--

**_Chicago, October 2019_ **

Jonny woke up to shouting.

He was disoriented, drowsy from sleep. He blinked his eyes open blearily, turned his head to look at the clock. 2:42 a.m.

Jonny sat up, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. He tiredly rubbed the sand out of the corners of his eyes, ready to shout at the guys to keep the training down, when he heard it.

A gunshot.

They were a mob, so of course gunshots weren't uncommon; but this was different. It was in the _house._ And there was a rule to not shoot in the house because of the kids.

There was another gunshot and more yelling, and Jonny tumbled out of the bed, grabbing the gun under his pillow. He went straight for the kids’ shared room, finding them all bunched up in the corner of the closet.

All but one.

“Maddy- where's Maddy?”

Sadie was crying, holding onto Carter for dear life, and that was enough of an answer. Jonny tore out of the room and down the hall, to the stairs and-

And shit, there was an unfamiliar man pointing a gun at him.

Jonny didn't waste a moment's hesitance, and fired.

It hit the guy in the hand, purposeful, of course, and the gun fell from the man's grasp long enough for Jonny to make a beeline by him, shove him over the railing, and take off to find Patrick or Sharpy or _Maddy._

He skidded to a halt when he found himself behind a wall of people shooting at Seabs, Duncs, and Henri. Hurriedly, Jonathan hit the guy to the right of him in the head with his gun, then the guy to the left, and jumped through the hole they made when they moved out of the way.

“Maddy’s missing.”

“Duck.” Seabs said, pushed Jonny to the floor, and shot someone twice in rapid succession. “You need to hide.”

“Move.” Duncs grabbed him by his shirt collar and yanked him out of the way when a guy came barreling over. Duncs sucker punched him square in the nose, and there was a sickening crack. The guy screamed and collapsed to his knees.

Jonny shuddered.

“It's Smith.” Seabs warned. "Go find Kaner and _hide."_

Jonny shot a man running towards him and went off to look for Patrick.

He passed by the meeting room in his run. The lights were off and the door was open. No one was inside.

It was a bad idea _waiting_ to happen, and Jonny had a feeling something was wrong.

As he suspected, when he got closer, he could hear someone struggling inside the darkness. He peered into the room, gun raised. “Hello?”

“Jonny!” Maddy shrieked.

Jonathan slammed his hand on the wall to turn the lights on, and there, in the middle of the room, was Maddy, held still with a knife at her neck by a man with greasy grey hair and missing teeth. There was a gun pointed at Jonny.

“Let her go.” Jonny growled, eyes narrowing at the man, before dropping down to the knife. There was already a small trickle of blood sliding down her neck, staining the pretty pink shirt with a fox and a hedgehog on it.

“I don't think I will,” the man grinned, sly, “I hear Kane is quite fond of her.”

Jonny's blood ran cold.

Smith. This was _Smith._

“Where’s Patrick?” Jon demanded. “Let her go, now, or I’ll shoot you.”

“You’d shoot me? In front of a little girl?” Smith gasped in mock surprise.

“You've got a knife to her neck.” Jon scoffed. “I really don't think she'd mind.”

“Snappy. I like it. Most mobsters don't take the time to have a conversation.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I'm still in training.”

Smith's sly grin turned delighted. “Wait a minute. Don't tell me _you're_ the one Kane's swooning over? Oh!”

Jonathan's hands clenched harder on the gun, confused.

“Oh, come on, please don't tell me you don't know the buzzing news between mobs. It just so happens that the hot new story of the decade happens to be the mysterious man the great leader of the Chicago Mob is obsessed with.”

“Shut your mouth,” Jonny cocked his gun, “and let her go. I won't ask again.”

He wanted to shoot so bad, protect Maddy and kill the fucker that caused Pat and the mob so much pain. But he couldn't risk Smith tracking his movement, being prepared to shoot Jon and stab Maddy. He couldn't take that chance.

“He’s very protective of you, you know.” Smith tsked. “Won't tell anyone a single thing about you. Took me forever to find you.”

Jonathan fired. He missed, but it was enough to startle Smith's grip loose.

“Maddy run!” Jonny screamed, just as he heard a distant, desperate, _“Jonny!”_

Maddy took off right for him. Smith fired a round of bullets at her, but Jonathan jumped in the way and pushed her out of the room.

A bullet tore through his thigh, prompting a sudden, overwhelming burning and pain. He fell onto his side and gripped at his leg, trying to stop the blood that gushed from the wound.

“Don't take this personally; it has nothing to do with you,” Smith sighed, walking over to his writhing body, “And yet, it has everything to do with you.”

He kicked Jonathan once, in the face, and he was out.

\--▪--

All of Smith's men that had come with him were dead.

They'd lost Gus in the crossfire, Henri was in critical condition from a stab wound, and Patrick slammed his fist into the wall when Crow told him. But all of the girls were okay, and so we're the kids, and-

“Maddy?” Sharpy screeched from the bottom of the stairwell, _“Maddy?”_

Patrick had three seconds to panic before Maddy was tearing down the hall, neck and shirt dripping blood, crying her poor little heart out.

Sharpy lunged at her, frantically pulling his shirt off to try to stave off the blood. It was a small wound, not very deep. She'd be okay.

“Jonny!” She wailed. “Jonny! Jonny!”

Patrick's heart fell into his stomach. “What about Jonny?”

Abby knelt by Maddy’s side, crying, Sadie clutching her mother's arm. Maddy grabbed at her parents, petrified. “Jonny! He’s got Jonny! He- he-”

“Baby, baby, breathe.” Sharpy stopped her. “What happened?”

“He- he took me! The bad man!” Maddy cried. “Jonny tried to get him, b-but the-the bad man shot him! He took Jonny! He's got Jonny! Mama…”

Patrick scrambled down the hallway, Seabs and Fortin in pursuit. Patrick found the first room with the light on, and at the doorway was a puddle of blood, spreading and starting to dry.

Patrick’s eyes welled with tears. He slammed his left fist into the wall again, and a knuckle cracked. He paid no mind to the pain blooming in his hand, instead staring down at the blood that belonged to Jonny.

Smith’s got Jonny.

Patrick hadn't been fast enough again.

\--▪--

Jonny wasn't sure where was when he woke up.

His head was pounded, pressure pushing against his skull. There was a quiet ringing in his ears.

He was painfully aware of the pain from the bullet embedded in his thigh. He looked down through misty eyes to see a belt tied tight right above the wound.

He was tied to a chair, knots bounding his wrists and legs to the wood, one at his waistline.

He tugged at the ropes, a weak attempt at what he knew wouldn't work. He tried to wiggle his hands through the ropes, his feet, but they didn't budge, only gave him the beginnings of rope burn.

He could feel blood sliding down the side of his head. His shoes were missing.

He was in a dark room, only a single light by the wall in front of him, a surprisingly bright lamp.

Panic began to bubble up inside him because he'd been _kidnapped,_ by one of Patrick's enemies. Patrick's _worst_ enemy. The one who killed Stick without a bat of an eye.

Jonathan gulped, fear striking through every nerve in his body.

He didn't know where he was. He wanted Patrick. He wanted T.J., or Dan. He wanted his mother.

“Patrick,” he croaked, voice rough and scratchy, “Pat. Patrick!”

No one answered.

He was alone.

He was going to die.

\--▪--

Patrick immediately called every mob ally he could think of. Sidney and Geno, Tyler and Jamie, Flower and Reilly Smith and Jon Marchessault. He even went so far as to calling McDavid, and even Hall, because those two are on good terms and Patrick's a friend of Connor’s.

 _“He fucking what?”_ Sidney yelled into the phone. _“I'll shoot the dick's face off. We'll be there tomorrow.”_

 _“Don't panic,”_ Tyler told him, _“We're on our way. Your boy's smart. I'm sure he's okay.”_

McDavid even agreed to come down himself and bring some of his men to help out. Hall wouldn't be coming.

“Trouble in romance?” Patrick snickered.

 _“How fucking hypocritical, Kane.”_ McDavid hissed.

He pretty much struck out on the rest. Flower sent his apologies, best regards, and asked to say hello to Sid.

Yeesh, mobsters these days. So _sentimental._

And yeah, okay, McDavid had a point.

“ _Dayna_ ,” Patrick shouted, “Have you found anything yet?”

Dayna's been searching on the laptop they'd stolen about two years back, trying to figure out where Smith could be hiding Jonny.

“For fucks sake, Sharpy, get him some scotch or something and shut him up.” Dayna huffed, typing out a string of hacker codes.

Sharpy took Patrick by the arms and gently led him to the stairs. “You need to get some sleep. You'll be able to think better when you're not fraught with panic.”

Patrick tugged on his hair, eyes stinging with unfallen tears. “I have to find him, Sharpy. Smith- he's gonna kill him. He's gonna kill him just like he did to Stick.”

“You don't know that. Smith killed Stick without a second thought. He kidnapped Jonny; that had to mean something.”

“Yeah, it means Smith's waiting for me to watch him kill Jonny.”

“Well, that just means that Jonny's safe for right now.” Sharpy reasoned. “Go get some sleep. We'll come back to it in the morning. I don't think Dayna’s moving from that chair any time soon.”

Patrick sniffed, but nodded. Maybe he could dream up a way to save Jonny. Or maybe, he'll wake up, and Jonny will be there, wrapped up next to him, and all of this will be some horrible nightmare.

“Okay.” He whispered, nodding to himself, before turning and heading up the stairs.

The guys watched him go, frowning.

\--▪--

Tyler and the Dallas Mob were the first of the army to arrive. In the hands of his boys were an array of laptops and bags of weapons.

“Kaner.” Tyler greeted with sympathy, bringing his friend in for a hug. “We’ll find this son of a bitch. I swear.”

Patrick hugged him back tightly before pulling away. “What do you know?”

Tyler snapped his fingers, and his boys went over to Dayna to help set up shop. Jamie came and stood next to his fiancé. “Rumor has it that there's been a lot of activity around the Eastside. There's been a lot of people complaining about gunshots.”

“You think he's on the Eastside?”

Tyler shook his head. “No, we think he's either on the North or South side.”

“He’s drawing attention to throw us off.” Patrick said, eyes wide. He rubbed his face until it was raw, nails scratching at his skin. “This is all my fault. I should have let Jonny go months ago.”

“Don't do that to yourself,” Sharpy scolded, “You were doing what was best for everyone here. Jonny understands that.”

“He wouldn't have said anything!” Patrick wailed, trying to calm his breathing, “Everyone knows he would have kept his mouth shut, but I didn't want him to leave. And now look. He’s _missing,_ when I could have avoi-”

“Shut your _mouth,_ Kaner,” Tyler snapped, shoving Patrick hard into the wall so his head knocked against it, “Blaming yourself will get you nowhere. Blame Smith for causing all this bullshit. Use _that_ anger towards finding Jonathan. Capiche?”

Patrick swallowed, but nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks. So, North and South. Where do we start?”

At that moment, the doors to the base were kicked open, and members of the Russian Mob came spilling into the base. Chicago raised their guns on instinct, aiming.

Geno sauntered into the room, grinning wide, machine gun in hand.

Sidney came hurrying in behind him, flustered. “I am so sorry.”

Geno cocked the gun. “I bring weapons!”

Chicago lowered their guns, and Sidney turned to Patrick worriedly. “Have you found him yet?”

Patrick shook his head, hating himself. “No. But we think we know some locations where Smith could be hiding him.”

“Let's get started, then.” Sidney nodded, voice hard and face determined. He walked off, muttering under his breath. “I'm gonna kill every single one of those cucks that lays a hand on Jon, I swear to fucking…”

Geno shushed him and herded him away. Jamie awkwardly patted Patrick on the back. “We'll find him.”

Patrick set his jaw. “I'm going to train.”

He stormed out, leaving behind three mobs helpless to do anything.

\--▪--

Jon was half asleep when a door opened.

He lifted his head weakly to look at the intruder.

Smith.

A spike of fear shot through him. “What do you want?”

Smith shrugged, walking over to the chair. There was another man following behind him, holding up a video camera.

“Kane's been a pest of mine for far too long. That whole mob has.”

“Sorry,” Jonny smiled sideways, “I've only been with them for a year.”

Smith’s hand landed against Jonathan’s cheek with a sickening _crack_ that echoed through the room. It stung, and he felt his cheek start to heat up immediately. He grunted and moved his jaw around.

“I don't quite like your attitude.” Smith snarled.

“Then why the fuck are you in the mob business?”

Smith hit him with the back of his hand this time. Within seconds, Jonny felt a drop of blood fall from his nose, down onto his pants, and then it was streaming, falling into his mouth and staining his shirt.

“I'll kill you right now if you don't shut your mouth.” Smith warned. “Kane has a liking to you, and I can see why. You're a pretty thing, and feisty, too. Perfect for Kane. Perfect to break.”

“Try me.” Jonny grinned through the blood on his teeth.

Smith’s knuckles slammed into the side of his face.

\--▪--

_two days later_

Two days had gone by and there was still no sign of Jonny.

McDavid and five of his best guys had arrived yesterday, hoping to be of at least some assistance.

“We checked everywhere on the Northside.” Tyler frowned. “We didn't find anything.”

“Southside's clear, too.” Sidney agreed, aggravated.

“I checked the Eastside just in case,” McDavid added, “Nothing.”

Patrick shoved the papers and the laptop off the table in a fit of rage, shouting angrily. They hadn't gotten _anywhere._ Jonny could be dead, and it would be all his fault.

“You need to calm down.” Sidney told him, grabbing his arm to prevent him from doing anymore damage.

Patrick ripped his arm away. “Don't _ever_ tell me to calm down.” He shoved at Sidney, annoyed.

Geno immediately pulled Sidney away and got in between them. “Do not touch him.” He growled out, voice low and threatening.

Patrick squinted in challenge. “Or what, Malkin?”

Behind them, Russia was on the fence. Letang already had his gun up and ready. From over Geno’s shoulder, he saw Sid looking, surprisingly, frightened.

And- right. Sidney hadn't been raised in the mob life like Geno and the others. He was like Jonny, met a guy who was secretly a mobster and was thrown into the mob life.

The only difference is, Sidney had a choice.

Patrick gripped his hair, and behind him, he heard the safety of a pistol click off. Patrick raised his hands, and there was a collective sound of guns cocking, even from the Dallas and Edmonton men surrounding them all.

Tyler moved in between Patrick and Geno. “Everyone needs to calm down. I know everyone's worried about Jonathan, but fighting with each other isn't going to help us find him faster. It won't help us find him at all.”

“It's okay, G.” Sidney whispered to him, hand on his shoulder. “I'm fine.”

Geno's jaw untensed at his husband’s words. He relaxed. Patrick wished that one day, Jonny could be as relaxed and happy together as they are.

Now Patrick may never see him again.

“Smith covers his tracks,” he said, backing away and into his guys, “We just need to uncover them.”

“Easier said than done.” Määtä frowned.

Patrick closed his eyes and inhaled, deep and heavy. He felt a cautious arm on his elbow, and he opened his eyes to find Tyler. “I know what you need.”

They ended up in the kitchen. Tyler chucked him a beer. “You're allowed three beers. No more, but no less.”

Patrick slammed down the first two beers. He nursed his third from his study, going over the maps sprawled about his desk, bullet casings and broken glass scattered throughout the room.

“Damn,” Tyler whistled, “It looks like a tornado ran through here.”

“Might as well have.” Patrick replied, marking a large ‘X’ over a spot on the map.

They studied the map for the next couple of minutes, crossing off places and circling some. They were considering calling Sid and Malkin in, when they heard Dayna scream, and Kristy yell, _“Patrick!”_

Patrick and Tyler bolted out of the study and down the hall, weaving through the throngs of people to get to Dayna and the boys working on the computers. There was a video playing on the screen.

“Smith just sent us an email.” Dayna fretted, “I went to open it and this video popped up.”

 _“Such a pretty face to mess up.”_ Smith taunted, and he moved so that the camera could see-

Jonny. Jonny, slouched against the wall for support, nose bleeding, bullet buried in his leg.

Sidney covered his mouth in horror.

_Smith grabbed a knife from his toolbelt. He pressed it to Jonny's cheek. “I bet he'll be so mad when he sees you like this.”_

_Jonny tried to push him back, but Smith was too strong and Jonny was too weak. Smith pinned Jonny to the wall by his neck._

_He dragged the blade down Jonny's cheek, going slow to draw out the pain. Jonny gritted his teeth together and breathed._

_“Strong boy, aren't you?” Smith tsked. “Makes good for a mobster.”_

_He slapped Jonny across the face, palm making impact with the cut. Jonny’s head snapped to the side, and he couldn't help the whimper that escaped._

_Smith fisted Jonny's hair and slammed it against the wall behind him. Down and dazed, Smith took the knife and sliced his shirt down the middle, shoving it back. In a quick move, he cut Jonny right above his abs. Jonny yelled._

_“Bet he'll_ **_love_ ** _this. Every time you take your shirt off, he'll see the scars, and remember that he put you here.” He grinned, evil. “If you make it out of here.”_

“Where’s the signal coming from?” Patrick demanded, too much of every emotion pulsing through him, under his skin. “What server did the email come from? Can you find the source?”

Dallas hurriedly set to work.

_Smith let go of Jonny's neck and sent a hard punch right at Jonny's stomach, once, twice, three times, four, and then Jonny was throwing up all over himself and the floor. He dropped weakly to his knees._

_When he was done, Smith jerked Jonny's head up again and faced it towards the camera. “Anything you'd like to say to him?”_

_Jonny coughed, trying to catch his breath. “Pat…” he croaked._

Patrick’s hands shot out to desperately grab the laptop screen.

_Smith slammed his head against the wall again, and he collapsed into a pile of limbs on the ground, unconscious._

_“Better hurry if you want to find him in time.” Smith taunted._

The video ended.

Patrick yelled and slammed the laptop backwards onto the table as hard as he could. The screen shattered beneath his fingers.

“Find where it came from! Find it!” He shouted. _“Find-”_

“Here!” Devin Shore yelped. “I can't find the exact source; he's rerouting the signal, but it pinged off these power lines.”

Patrick shoved his way over and towered next to Shore. “Where?”

“On the Eastside. Look, they make a square. It spans about ten miles in all directions. He’s gotta be in there, right?”

“Or at least around there. More than likely.” Patrick pushed back against the crowd. “I want every man on the streets. McDavid, your guys and a couple of Russia are going to scour out the surrounding area. You stay with me.”

McDavid nodded, snapped his fingers for his guys to follow, and went to arm up.

“The rest of Russia, and Dallas? You're with Chicago inside that square. I want every rock turned, every nook and cranny searched. _Find him._ Malkin, Sid, Tyler, and Benn, you're with me- Seabs, Sharpy, Duncs, uh, and Crow. I want the best men with me to take this fucker down.”

“Letang comes with us.” Malkin demanded.

Patrick nodded. “Okay. Suit up.”

The groups dispersed to grab their weapons. Patrick headed to the armory. He strapped a knife holder around his thigh and sheathed a dagger in it, then stuffed a switchblade into his boot.

He grabbed a pistol and put it in the back waistband of his pants. He took another and put it in a sheath in his belt, then took _another_ and loaded it to have on hand.

There were no suits this time. There was only gear, and only weapons. This was war.

Let the mob wars begin.

\--▪--

Jonny wasn't sure how much blood he lost, but he knew it was probably an unsafe amount.

He tried to block out the pain, ignore the burning and the cutting. He _tried,_ but he couldn't.

He didn't know how long it had been; he'f been fading in and out of consciousness since he arrived. He did know, however, that everything hurt, and that it probably wouldn't be stopping any time soon.

His leg is more than likely infected, what with vomit and germs from the concrete floor seeping into the open wound. He was going to die here, and Patrick would never forgive himself.

What was he doing? Patrick never said that he loved Jonny, never said it back. Even though he knew Patrick cared, he didn't love Jonny; not like Jonny loves Pat.

That, right there, hurt more than anything Smith was doing to him.

“Do you know about the incident about fifteen years ago? When I shot that girl in front of her dad, then shot him too?” Smith asked, crouched down by Jonny’s side, his weak body lying limp on the floor, “Well, I think I'll let Patrick relive that. _I_ think, that I'll grab him, too, tie him up, and then shoot you right in front of him.”

Smith held up his gun, as if examining it. “Then I'll shoot him, too.”

“Do- do what you want to me, just don't-” Jonny sputtered, having to manually shape his lips to form the words because he has no energy left, “-don't hurt him.”

Smith cooed. “That's cute.”

He slammed the butt of the gun against Jonny's head, and he fell back against the floor, dazed. His head fucking _ached._ He was going to have a seizure soon if Smith kept this up, if he didn't crack his skull before that.

He closed his eyes, praying for it all to be over.

A hand closed over his throat, and Jonny's eyes shot open. He reached to grab at the hands, try to pull them off, but his strength was gone.

“It would be so easy to kill you right now,” Smith mumbled, hands squeezing tighter, “Maybe I should. Maybe I should let Kane think you're still alive. Then he'll find your dead, and know that he was too late.”

Jonny choked, struggling to pry the hands away. Smith only tightened his grip, and Jonny stopped immediately in fear of Smith crushing his jugular.

His chest burned with the need of air. His head hurt even worse now, and he was getting lightheaded. His ears are pounding, sounds like gunshots. He tried to gasp, but couldn't get any air in. He gagged hard and almost threw up. He wished he would have, all over Smith.

It's not the first time Jonny'd been strangled. He vaguely remembered Artem and a chokehold way back when he first found Patrick. It made him smile a little at the memory before slipping back into the peaceful state of unconsciousness.

\--▪--

“Kaner!” Patric Hornqvist hissed through the walkie talkie. “I found it!”

It took less than five minutes for Patrick and the army to get to Horny's location. There were three bodies on the floor, all strangled and lying motionless on the ground, surrounded by Edmonton and the handful of Russia.

“Didn't want to use the guns,” Cam Talbot told him, “and alert them inside.”

Patrick nodded. He, Tyler, McDavid, Malkin, and Sidney took the lead at the front of the army by the doors of the abandoned building.

They kicked the door down and flooded inside. There was a shout, a gunshot, and then all hell broke loose.

The main five split up. Patrick took Tyler and McDavid while Sidney and Malkin went their own way.

Bodies were dropping left and right, and it was sad how it had become such second nature to them all.

They kicked down each door they came up against, shot anyone in their path. No chances.

Malkin suddenly disappeared. Sidney spun around, “Geno? Geno!”

An unfamiliar man turned the corner and spotted Sidney alone. He held up his gun and started firing. Sidney fired back, running up the the man to shut him up.

The guy's gun clicked and Sidney shot him in the shoulder. He threw a hard right hook and caught the guy in the jaw, then shot him through the abdomen.

The guy collapsed, and Sidney hurried down the hall. He kicked down the next door in three sharp swings, and-

_“Tazer!”_

Sidney fell to his knees beside his friend. Jonny was unconscious, bleeding out and barely breathing. He was pale, so fucking pale, stark contrast to the dark crimson, almost black, blood stained to his skin.

“Oh my god.” He mumbled, scrambling to find a pulse. He unbuckled his belt and tied it above the bullet hole. His pants were ripped there, enough to see the skin was bright red and irritated, the wound was covered in blood and puss and vomit.

Malkin stumbled into the doorway, and Sidney cried out, “Get Kaner!”

Malkin rushed to do so while Sidney cradled his friend in his lap. “Jonny, wake up. C'mon, man, don't do this!”

He frantically wiped the blood off of his face, his arms, his ankles. The room stunk with the smell of throw up, and he gagged, not even bothering to question how he handled going to the bathroom.

Jonny had been here for a week.

The sound of a gun cocking brought Sidney’s attention back. He looked up and tensed when he saw Smith aiming a gun at him.

“Kane's definitely got some friends.”

In a flash, Sidney grabbed his gun and fired. Smith jumped out of the way and fired back. The bullet grazed Sidney's arm, and _fuck,_ that hurt, but he kept his gun raised.

Smith tutted. “You don't like conversing like he does.” He motioned to Jonny with his gun.

“I have a feeling he's learned his lesson.” Sidney snapped.

Smith opened his mouth to reply, but six bangs of a gun silenced him. Sidney saw a bullet tear out of his shoulder. The force of the bullets shoved Smith forward until he lost his balance face-planted onto the concrete.

Patrick and Malkin were standing in the doorway, guns up and smoking.

Patrick dropped his gun and ran to Jon, collecting him in his arms. _“Jonny!_ No, no no no, please no. Wake up. Open your eyes, baby, come on.”

Malkin crouched by Smith, and Sidney glanced up quick enough to see six bleeding bullet holes in Smith's back and head. Malkin checked Smith pulse and made a slashing motion across his neck.

Smith was dead.

Patrick stared down at Jonathan, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto the bloodstained clothes beneath him. He sobbed, body shaking with each one that tore from his throat. Patrick pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to keep himself from throwing up.

“He- he needs a hospital.” Patrick said, strained and wheezed.

Malkin nodded silently. “We use my SUV.”

Patrick lifted Jonny bridal style, pressed him close to his body. He paid no mind to the blood or the vomit. He hurried through the halls, passing by the army of mobsters.

“Meet us at Northwestern Memorial.” Patrick called out and ran to the cars. Sidney, Malkin, Sharpy, Seabs, and Duncs jumped into the first SUV, while Tyler, Jamie, Shore, Crow, Hoss, and Fortin got in the other.

They broke basically every traffic law known to man, speeding down the highway to the hospital. They skidded up to the doors of the ER.

“This is downtown; what do we do?” Seabs asked, “They're gonna recognize us.”

Patrick tumbled out of the car, Jonny grasped firmly in his arms. “We're gonna do what mobsters do best.” He said, and there was a chorus of safeties clicking off.

They spilled through the doors, guns going off rapidly, aimed at the walls to get attention. Jonny needed to get looked at _now._ He was the most important person in the room.

Nurses and civilians ducked to cover. Patrick went over to one of the hiding nurses and hissed out, “Help him now, or I'll kill every single one of you.”

The nurses called, panicked, for doctors to assist them. They loaded him onto a stretcher and rushed him down the hall to the OR.

“His name is Jonathan Toews. He's been tortured. He’s got an infected bullet wound and God knows what el-”

A nurse held him back as Jonny was rushed into the OR. “You can't go in there.”

Patrick shoved at her, _“Excuse me?”_

The nurse shook in fear. “I-It's protocol. And it's unsanitary. For his safety and his health, you can't go back there, s-sir.”

Patrick gripped her by her scrubs, and she yelped in fear. “If he dies,” he growled, “so do you.”

He let her go, and she scrambled into the OR in a blind panic.

There were still gunshots going off, and Patrick could only assume the guys were shooting at security guards. He stormed back into the waiting room and whistled. “Everyone out!”

The gunshots stopped, and in the blink of an eye, every mobster in the room was gone.

\--▪--

The first thing Jonny noticed was how bad his head hurt.

Carefully, he lifted his hand to cradle his head, and the second thing he noticed was that his hair had been cut down. There was more hair than a buzz cut, but it was definitely shorter than before.

The third thing he noticed was the smell of bleach, that only made his head hurt worse.

It was a fight to open his eyes, and he immediately regretted doing so when he did. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light and whimpered.

Almost immediately, there was a hand on his arm.

Jonny jerked, a natural instinct now, and went to punch whoever was grabbing him.

“Jonathan! _Mon cher, c'est moi. C'est Maman.”_

Jonny froze on the spot. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, squinting at the figure above him.

It was his mother.

“Maman?” He croaked.

His mother was crying, and she held his face on her hands. _“Mon pauvre bébé. Vous allez bien maintenant.”_

He tried to reach out for her, but a sharp pain in his chest stopped him. He hissed, and his mother was quick to lay him back down and shush him.

“You've got a couple broken ribs.” She told him, shaky, “A mild concussion, too. They were able to clean out the- the bullet hole. You're on a lot of antibiotics to keep it clean.”

“You're lucky it didn't have to be amputated.” His father said, coming into the room.

“Bryan.” His mother scolded.

“Dad?” Jonny wheezed. “Oh God, what happened?”

“That's what I'd like to ask you, Jonathan.” A female voice came, which belonged to the doctor walking into the room. “You've give everyone quite a scare.”

 _They're probably not the only ones,_ He thought.

“What do you remember?” The doctor asked.

Jonny paused. He couldn't give up Patrick or the others. If he's at the hospital someone must have found him.

Jonny's mind wandered to Patrick, what he could have seen if it was him that found him. Deep down, as much as he hoped Patrick would save him, he didn't want him to see what Jonny had become at the hands of Smith.

 _Smith,_ shit, is he still out there? Did he kill Patrick?

Oh God. What if Patrick’s dead?

Jonathan's chest constricted, and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. The pain in his ribs didn't help, either.

“Jonny, honey, calm down,” his mother begged, “It's alright. _Tu vas bien maintenant, ma chérie.”_

Jonny squeezed his eyes shut. Everything hurt, _fuck,_ everything hurt.

“I'll come back later.” The doctor said quietly, then walked out the door.

She came back an hour later, with an officer in tow. Dread filled Jonathan instantly. His mother put a hand on his arm. “It's okay, Jonathan. You're not in any trouble. They just want to find the people who did this.”

Patrick. They want to find Patrick. He can't let that happen.

“His name is Smith,” Jonny whispered, throat tight, “That's all I know about his name.”

“This ‘Smith.’ He had you the whole time?” The officer asked.

“Yes.”

The officer looked at him like he didn't believe him. “Mr. Toews, you were brought here by a member of the Chicago Mob. His name is Patrick Kane; do you recognize him?”

He showed Jonny a picture of Patrick taken from the security camera in the lobby of the hospital. He was carrying a lifeless-looking Jonny in his arms while a handful of other people were shooting at things.

“Do you recognize anyone in this picture?”

Jonny smiled weakly, “There's me.”

The officer looked unimpressed. “Mr. Toews, this is a very serious problem. I need you to cooperate. Your case could land a lot of bad men in jail.”

 _They're not bad men,_ he thought, _they just do bad things sometimes._

“No,” Jonny told him quietly, acting like he was scared, “I don't know who they are.”

“What _do_ you know?”

Jonny shrugged, faux-nervous. “Smith was choking me. I think he was trying to strangle me. I passed out. When I woke up, I was here.”

There was a beat or two of silence, so Jonny stepped up his act. “I don't _know,_ okay? That's all I remember. I don't know who any of those people are.”

His heart rate picked up, and he started hyperventilating. A nurse quickly hurried in to assist the doctor in calming Jonny down.

His mother turned to the officer. “My son has said all he knows. Can't you see he's in distress? He's been tortured. Please leave my son to rest.”

The officer blushed in embarrassment. “My apologies, ma'am.”

When he left, Jonny allowed himself to relax. His thought were buzzing in panic of what happened to Patrick and Smith and Sidney. Had Patrick actually called in Russia for backup?

“I want to sleep, Maman.” Jonny mumbled and closed his eyes. He didn't listen to whatever his mother replied with. He just lost himself in his thoughts and his hopes that Patrick was alive. He was on the picture. He had to be alive.

Unless Smith was still alive and came after him when he left the hospital

Jonny squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the panic from bubbling up inside.

\--▪--

It was midnight, a week after he'd been brought to the hospital, when his door opened.

Jonny snapped awake, and his arm shot out to grab the water bottle on the bedside table and chucked it at the intruder.

“Jesus Christ, you've got a good arm.”

Jonny's body went lax instantly at the familiar voice. His eyes filled with tears when Patrick walked into the moonbeam so he could see his face.

There was a scar on the side of his cheek, but other than that, Patrick looked fine.

“Pat.”

Patrick crossed the room and dropped to his knees at the side of the bed. Jonny fell into his arms, melting into the familiar warm embrace. Patrick tucked Jonny's face into his neck, hand cradling the base of Jonny's skull.

“Your hair's shorter.” He mumbled to Jonny's temple.

Jonny laughed like a sob. “After all of that, that's all you have to say to me?”

Patrick pulled back and crashed their lips together, mindful of the concussion he knows Jonny has.

"Pat- Smith. What about Smith?"

"He's gone, baby." Patrick assured, wiping away a tear, "He'll never hurt you again."

They kissed for an eternity, like they'd never see each other again, and it was only when Patrick pulled away again that Jonny realized why.

“I'm so glad you're okay,” Patrick sniffled, tears rolling down his face, “You were so- so _lifeless_ when I found you. I almost lost you, I-”

“Shh,” Jonny hushed him, thumbs swiping away Pat's tears, “I'm alright now, thanks to you. You found me. God, I knew you would.”

“I love you,” Patrick sobbed, clutching at Jonny's terrible hospital gown, “I didn't th-think I'd get the chance to tell y-you. I didn't want you to d- to die thinking I didn't love you. I _do._ I love you so much, Jonny, I love you, I love you-”

“I love you too, you complete idiot.” Jonny cried, snuggling into Patrick's neck to press soft kisses across the skin. “Never stopped.”

“I'm so sorry this happened to you. None of this would have happened if I had let you go. No no no, listen to me,” Patrick said over Jonny’s protests, “This...this is all my fault. I put you in danger. And now you're all banged up and you could have _died,_ dammit, and it would all have been on me. It _is_ all on me.”

He caresses the side of Jonny's face, and Jonny leaned into the touch. It was soft, and reminded him of all the times they'd had sex, how gentle Pat was with him, how he was the only one who go to see that side of Patrick.

“But you're here, safe and with your family. So, I'm letting you go. You're free.”

Jonny jerked away. _“What?”_

Patrick looked so sad, but he continued, “This is where you belong, Jonny. Not in a mob, not as a mobster, not running around killing people and doing drug deals. You should be here with your family, playing hockey with your brother and going to school and finding a partner that will give you a normal life.”

“Shut up,” Jonny spat, “Shut _up.”_ He seized Patrick by the arms and shook him angrily. “Too fucking bad, asshole. I've fallen in love with _you;_ I want to be in the mob with _you;_ I want to be with _you.”_

“Jonny…”

“No. You made the decision to keep me captive. You made the decision to not let me go. For _once,_ let me make a fucking decision in this relationship, because I want to be with _you.”_

Patrick stared at him, speechless.

Jonny sighed and leaned their foreheads together. Patrick's hand came up to cup the back of Jonny’s neck. Jonny leaned down to kiss him, kissed him again.

“I love my family,” Jonny said softly, “and yes, it's safer to drop contact with you and the mob and move on. But my name is on the Chicago-Russia contract, which means I'm legally involved, which means you couldn't get rid of me if you wanted to."

Jonny ignored the pain in his ribs to pull at Patrick, until the blond climbed up onto the mattress. He was careful to maneuver Jonny and not mess with the stitches in his thigh, but eventually got him tucked up against his side.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

\--▪--

Thirty minutes later, police broke down the door to the hospital room.

What they found was an empty room, and a single piece of paper on the bed that was addressed to his mother.

What it said was: _“I’m happy.”_

\--▪--

**_Chicago, June 2021_ **

There was always a suffocating feeling when Patrick’s dick was buried deep in his ass, when Pat was pressed down so close that he was practically laying on top of him.

It was a thrill. Patrick big shoulders always keep him pinned down, strong legs bracketing Jonny’s hips.

When it's hot and heavy like this, losing themselves and not even noticing how hard they've actually gone, Jonny always comes out of it with bruises on his legs and scratch marks on Pat's back. Patrick slammed in hard and quick, jackrabbiting his hips.

Jonny had been cooking with the women, dancing around the massive kitchen to Shakira, and Patrick had decided to drag him upstairs and fuck his brains out.

“But my roast.” Jonny had whined before Patrick shoved three fingers down his throat and two up his ass.

“You do it on purpose,” Patrick grunted, dropping his head to rest on Jonny's shoulder while Jonny hung on for dear life, “Shakin’ your ass like that, knowin’ I'm there behind you, watching, you fuckin’ exhibitionist.”

Jonny dug his nails into Patrick’s back meanly, and Pat retaliated by slamming the tip of his dick against his prostate until he was hurtling towards an orgasm.

“Shit, yes,” Jonny whimpered, moaning with each hit of his prostate, “There, right there, oh god.”

Patrick hooked his hands under the backs of Jonny’s knees and bent them higher, spread them apart. He left Jonny spread wide, bearing himself for Pat, gasping for it.

Patrick leaned down, and some of his dick slipped out, but he wrapped his lips around the tip of Jonny's dick and Jonny was coming like it was shot out of him. Immediately, Patrick pulled back and slammed in one more time a direct hit to Jonny’s prostate, and Jonny screamed.

They didn't move for a bit, trying to catch their breath. Jonny was pliant and relaxed beneath Patrick’s hands. When the blond was sure Jonny was okay, he moved to lay on his back, but rolled Jonny with him.

He slid his dick back into the warmth of Jonny's ass and settled him there. Jonny exhaled harshly when Pat's hard dick hit his sensitive prostate.

“Seven minutes,” he brunet mumbled, “Maybe ten. I'm too old for this.” He put a hand on Pat's chest for balance, and put the other on Pat's hip.

Patrick chuckled, taking a deep breath when Jonny jostled his dick. “Love seeing you like this. Love seeing you fall apart. Love you.”

His hands grabbed the backs of Jonny's thighs and pulled them so they were pressed against his hips. His thumb caressed the scar permanently embedded on Jonny’s leg from the bullet.

“Hey,” Jonny crooned, catching his hand and squeezing it, “Love you, too.”

Patrick hummed happily, and Jonny said, “You can move. Just try not to hit my prostate.”

Patrick squinted. “Bet I can make you come again.”

Jonny squinted back. “I hate when you do that,” he raised his hips, then dropped down hard onto Pat’s dick. Patrick choked and grabbed onto Jonny's hip in surprise, “You're on.”

Later, when he’d succeeded at his goal and had Jonny come-dumb and half asleep, he let himself sink into the feeling of Jonny curled up against him, solid and warm and protected. 

He kissed Jonny's nose, then between his eyes. He'd finally been fast enough.


End file.
